


if you ever want to be in love

by Graysworks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Banter, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hedrick now gets a POV, Humor, Iverson trying his best, James POV, James Tries To Deal With Having A Crush: the series, James-centric, Keith gets the dumb jock solder bf he deserves, M/M, but it's darker, giving James Griffin the backstory He Deserves, my baaaaad, surprising amounts of plot, up to the end of season 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-02-21 04:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22555114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graysworks/pseuds/Graysworks
Summary: To do: secure the Garrison, secure a voice within a questionable military government without forfeiting those integral personal values- and oh yeah, try not to fall for the black sheep leader of Voltron. Watch James fail to do all three while his team enables him, Keith's team enableshim, and Earth scrambles to be rid of the last of its captors. Set during and after season 7, veers into AU territory. Featuring about 6 different B-plots in a given chapter.```this one is basically just *fights the chain of command* *fights the chain of command* *mourns several years of early adulthood as the world changes around you* *fights the chain of command*
Relationships: James Griffin/Keith (Voltron)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from the James Bay song. totally forgot to check time-skip dates and add em up right, but it's not really integral to the story soooo

They intercept the Paladins in Platt City.

“Try not to hit any of them, go for the drones,” James commands, before a thought strikes him. Keith. Keith is in that group.

Rizavi calls in from the other jeep. “Uh, Griff? We gonna slow down?”

“I’ve got a better idea,” he says, and turns the wheel toward the droid.

  
Keith doesn’t recognize him, at first, but his eyes widen as soon as James opens his mouth. That’s gratification in and of itself, but he hides the ridiculous grin that wants to leap to his face and prioritizes- they both do. Five words, and they establish where they stand. He never was one for small talk.

And he has a dog. Wolf, more accurately, and it takes James all of two minutes to wrap his mind around this information, file it into the endless bin of odd-Keith-musings, the bits and ends that he _thought_ would fade with renewed rivalry; the Paladins pile into their banged up jeeps, and nothing but silence comes over Keith’s end. Maybe the crash landing shook him up. It’s a long ride, after that.

“Glad Holt got his happy ending,” Kinkade mutters as they linger in the Garrison courtyard, reunions forefront.

Rizavi snorts and pulls her hair out of her collar. “Maybe he’ll lay off the drills for a while, huh? Wouldn’t mind a day off now and again.”

“Doubt it,” James says. He crosses his arms. To the right, Keith’s head wanders from one end of the courtyard to another, then tips up to Shirogane as Iverson speaks. His hair covers his collar too. Black as coal.

When he turns to James at the end of the exchange, it strays into his eyes, and James comes to the shocking conclusion that he is, in fact, at an utter loss for what to do with this attention.

  
He’s not family. His is hidden away somewhere, deep behind Galra lines, unbreakable, and Keith’s is ambiguous. The Paladins. Commander Holt. The wolf. His web of comraderie starts and ends with a question, like most traits James has spent the odd hour recalling, those quiet things. It wasn’t until he’d disappeared into the desert that James even found out he was an orphan.

The team reconvenes after the order and time stamp for debrief, James showers and changes and eats, mindless- it catches though, snags the part of his brain usually reserved for the photograph tucked under his pillow. Keith had someone. Had a few, actually.

But he turned.

When one of the other Paladins jumps the chain of command, James cuts him off and, in a way, tests the waters. He outranks Keith, technically. It’s not hard to fault them for privilege- they’ve fought the Galra up close, they know the stakes better than any. Yet here they sit. Keith across the table, silent.

He’s lost his spirit, James thinks, before dismissing the thought. They’ve all lost something. Maybe there’s more to his deference than the gold-shouldered officer to his right.

  
It shouldn’t be a surprise that Keith tries to steal his jeep. What is: James’s first instinct is to join him, not report him.

  
“I get it,” he says, on the ride back from the camps. Keith looks over, brows raised. “Your team, how they’re important to you.”

Keith looks away. “I’m not their leader.”

“Ah, you’re right. Leaders don’t enable their comrades to go out on a suicide mission.”

A beat passes. The jeep hums as they speed through debris and alleys. Keith’s head tilts in his direction. “Do you want something?”

“No.”

A lie. The lid on a box of smoking houses, missing posters, blue eyes, alone in a crowded courtyard.

“Good,” he says, and settles into his seat.

“Good,” James echos.

For a moment, it’s settled.

“You’re impossible,” James says.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“That’s exactly it. Four -no, _six_ \- years and you have nothing to say? You went to war, Keith!”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice!”

James glances over. Hand on the door, eyes wide. And blue. Very blue. Ridiculous that he says war, and Keith is either just as good as deflecting, or he didn’t instigate like James thought. It _would_ be James that jumped to conclusions, but it’s hard not to. Keith tried to steal his jeep. He’s sitting shotgun. He’s responsive.

Not a leap. Just caution, from both of them.

“None of us did,” James says, quieter.

  
The wolf teleports. Keith crouches, sword in hand, glare fixed on James after he objects to a split-up, and then he’s gone. White light and blue particles, like something out of an old sci-fi movie. Has he seen the one James is thinking of? He would like it. Maybe when they get back and someone passes around the contraband CD.

“Cosmo _does_ seem intrigued by you,” the Altean princess drops, while they wait. “Perhaps Keith would take you dimension hopping sometime.”

Take him. _Dimension hopping._ James laughs. “Don’t think we’re on that base yet.”

“Oh?” the princess asks, then her brows shoot up. “Well then why is it that he keeps looking at you? Were you not friends before all this?”

“We, uh... I’m not really sure what I would call it. I think we were just _kids_.”

Keith’s red blob on his radar cuts through two Galra droids within seconds, as if eager to confirm that point.

  
Victory. Success stirs the cadets and Paladins, then the rest of the Garrison and after they return to prep for debrief, everything is the same, physically, but there’s something in the air. The board room feels it. Even his sometimes-pessimistic voice of reason feels it when he brings up the MFE’s range, obligated to check himself before Shirogane riles the entire damn building.

It’s an easy fix, and fuck it, he’s ready for some good news.

  
“So, uh, you grew out your hair,” he approaches, once they’re in the air. Keith makes a soft noise behind him, but he’s grinning when James checks the reflection of the dash-cam.

“Small talk? Really?”

“You’ve got me in a corner here, Kogane.”

“This is _your_ plane, Griffin. And I thought this was a serious mission.”

Pride winds through his stomach. They’re all serious to him. It’s nice that someone other than Holt has that confidence, though.

“How about the wolf? The princess told me it could jump dimensions. Seems kinda overkill for an alien-ninja-warrior.”

“Are you paying attention to where we’re going?”

“The sword, then. You didn’t have that one when you left.”

“Nice dash layout. Decent leg room. Can’t believe Holt let you _touch_ this thing.”

“What about yours, then, aren’t you supposed to be-”

The Lion roars. It shakes the entire plane; James is pretty sure it breaks the sound barrier. When he looks back, Keith opens his eyes, and reckless joy flashes across his face before his chestplate fills the screen. James takes them into a low cruise and turns.

“I’ll let you take her for a spin,” Keith says as he punches the button to the ceiling hatch, “if you answer my question.”

James gapes as he climbs onto the cabin. “Wai- what question?” Keith jumps, a blink of white and red. “Keith! What question!”

  
The battle turns, quickly. James keeps up, and so does his team, but when Keith orders them back to the Garrison, he knows things are about to get dicey.

Admiral Sanda’s disappearance. Launching the Atlas. The Garrison takes a beating, but it’s survived before.

“This is insane,” Rizavi voices for all of them as they face their first fleet. “Remember, disco at my funeral. Leifsdottir doesn’t get her fucking operas before Donna Summer.”

“I like the operas,” Kinkade says, a streak in James’s right window.

“Traitor.”

“Just because your sense of rhythm is-”

_“Watch out!”_

It’s, in a word, rough. Banter grows scarce. Orders flow steady, but those taper off once Atlas has position, and Shirogane takes over. Fierce, calculated. Familiar enough that James chuckles. He’d wonder how he’s supposed to compete, but in the air, everyone takes a dive the same way; it’s his timing that’s off.

By the time they skid into the hangar to recharge, Voltron returns to the fight, and takes it above the atmosphere. James hangs over Rizavi’s and Kinkade’s shoulders to watch the playout over the hangar screen, collar soaked.

“Chances aren’t great. Thirty-eight percent, give or take.”

“C’mon, Leifsdottir, they’re the best pilots in the galaxy,” Kinkade rumbles. “They’ve gotten us this far.”

Voltron takes another hit. Keith’s cry comes over the comm, loud, and James winces. “They’re still human.”

Painfully.

  
The second half is a mess. They take out one cannon, then another. Shirogane leaves the Atlas. Shirogane is on a Galra cruiser? The Atlas loses power. Sendak’s cruiser is vulnerable. The last cannon goes up in smoke. Sendak is dead!

And something worse falls from the sky.

  
“You’ve gotta be _shitting_ me.” Rizavi, of course. “It wasn’t enough to take out an entire Galra armada? We’re barely at fifty percent, commander!”

Holt’s tinny voice comes through the screen, urgent. “Keep charging. Voltron might be able to handle this, but we need you in there for backup.”

They provide backup; it isn’t enough, is nowhere close. When Keith orders them back to the Atlas, James opens a separate comm link.

“Don’t argue me on this, Griffin,” Keith rasps. Always expecting a fight.

“No,” he says, quickly. “You were right. You’re right, Keith.” Keith starts to respond, but he cuts in, “I _do_ want something, you’ve gotta promise me that you’ll make it back so I can tell you.”

Debris zooms past. For a moment, Keith pants and the sound of his Lion creaking fills the gap. James tightens his grip on his controls. The Atlas comes into view.

“No promises,” Keith manages, “I’ll meet you.”

“South landing pad.”

“North.”

James dodges a splintered hull. “Should I bring the flowers or candles?”

Keith swears. His voice cracks. “Stay fucking safe, Griffin.”

“Copy.”

He can’t go to the north landing pad, as it turns out, because when Keith crashes he eviscerates it. Dust balloons away from the crater- at least, where a crater should be. The Lion hit a weak spot, structurally, says Leifsdottir, but James barely hears through his closing cabin window.

Air whistles as he cuts through it. Rocks and metal ping and clank and rattle off of the wings. When he lands, and shoves over the side of the plane, slivers of dislodged stone slice his sleeves and scratch his visor.

No, no.

The Lion’s belly isn’t buried, but the rest of it wears sheets of wreckage like a second pelt. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Keith was larger than life, at the end- _Voltron_ was-

His fingers find purchase, and he heaves open the sub-hanger hatch, then rolls in. Lights flash across the rattled interior. Everything’s on a slant; he stumbles and pain shoots up one calf after a misplaced step, but he grabs the door to the cabin, shoves. It shrieks and gives. Saliva gathers in his mouth, sweat down his temples.

“Here,” Keith slurs, incredibly, and conscious. James goes to his knees, faintly aware of the chatter in his helmet- more aware of Keith’s hair plastered to his cheek with blood.

“I don’t think I should move you,” he says, and swallows.

“No candles. Makes me think of the desert.”

Boots echo through the hangar, an erratic pound. James touches his shoulder, carefully. “Okay. No candles.”


	2. Chapter 2

Iverson throws him into an empty room as soon as they reach the Garrison. “The hell were you thinking?”

“ _Sir_?” he starts- then realizes; a rogue launch, immediately after the worst battle in Earth history. He’s gone and deviated from command. Well, that’s a first.

“The Garrison isn’t in a vacuum anymore, Griffin,” Iverson continues, gesturing to the hall. Doors slam and doctors converse, harried. “They have enemies here. You don’t want to paint yourself in that light.”

“But Commander Holt would have-”

“I know what the higher ups would have done. That’s why I’m glad it was you.”

He pauses. Some of it registers. Play off the haste, make it the mistake of a green cadet, direct away from politics. The Voltron Coalition, when it arrives, will almost certainly have a hierarchy, with Keith at the top, but James didn’t consider that once the Black Lion plummeted into the lithosphere. Something crawls behind his ribs, restrictive.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“This is the first time you’ve deviated, Griffin,” Iverson says, and gives him a knowing look. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  
The Garrison isn’t safe for three hours. Grounded Galra without contact with their commander, and with the idea that maybe the Paladins are down and out after crashing into the five corners of the earth, rush their broken defenses and burn a chunk of the living section by the time the MFE’s are sent out.

“Particle barrier’s not going up, we’ve gotta target the source of the signal jam,” James explains, dodging a rogue missile that spins out into the desert. “My guess is that one of the cruisers never made it off the ground, but it’s gotta be close.”

“Forty miles out,” Liefsdottir says.

“Triangulated?”

“Yes.”

“Kinkade, cover her right. There’s a few fighters left. Rizavi, bring up the rear, I don’t want that wing put through any more fire.”

“Wasn’t my idea to take a dive through a plume trail, Griffin.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They fly well into the night. Griffin barks orders, half distracted, but the cruiser takes hits easier on the ground and the fighters don’t have much juice left in them. It’s a rough few hours, but a quick win at the end; he sets down beside Rizavi as she repairs the barrier platform, or at least, attempts. They aren’t bad at codes and she knows her way around engines better than most- the tech is still beyond them. Kinkade calls for retreat after a second wave of Galra disappear into three other wrecked cruisers.

  
“Can’t believe we’ve gotta wait to root the fuckers out.” Rizavi tosses her bag onto her bunk. “The longer we leave them, the easier it’ll be for them to infiltrate the city.”

Griffin rolls his neck. “Reinforcements will get here soon, I’m not too worried about it.”

“I would be, if I thought my parents were in there.”

She freezes, mid-rung on the ladder, realizing what she’d said. Griffin’s jaw clicks shut.

“...sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I mean- it must be worse, you know? Not knowing.”

“I said it’s fine,” he repeats, and tosses her a protein bar. Leifsdottir slinks into the room, darting eyes suggesting that she’d heard everything. “Let’s rest up, it’s been a long day. Tomorrow I’m sure Holt has some half-cocked assignment for us to get that barrier up without him.”

Kinkade nudges his arm in greeting. “You signed up for on-the-job experience, didn’t you, Griffin?”

“Wasn’t exactly in the fine print, but that’s the spirit.”

“The spirit of sign first, ask questions later. How long is your contract anyway, same as ours?”

He shakes out his blanket. “Year longer.”

“Ha. Get your money’s worth, right?”

“The _Garrison’s_ money’s worth.”

Kinkade snorts. After a pause, Rizavi huffs and rolls onto her back, and Liefsdottir’s mouth curves up as she unpacks. James returns his blanket to the center of the bed, touches the edge of the photo under his pillow- and halts. The corner of a peeling poster, rain wrinkled and wind blown. Empty rooms in wrecked houses. Then- blue eyes.

He leaves the photo. Leaves the dorm.

  
Keith wakes when he nudges open the door, like he doesn’t sleep any deeper than necessary. It’s oddly congruous; even after a fall from space, he’s unchanged. James hovers, unsure if he’s welcome. Surveys the empty room.

“Hey,” Keith says, scratchy, as good an invitation as he’s gonna get. James pulls up a chair, glances around once for techs with the ridiculous image of Iverson, full uniform, hidden in a corner somewhere, waiting to jump. But there’s no one.

“You don’t have any visitors, I thought you’d be swamped.”

“Wouldn’ know. Haven’t been up.”

“Ah, lucky you, you get to wake up to the same beautiful sight. Don’t get too excited, I’m in high demand after all that.”

Keith releases a breath, grins, the ghost of a chuckle. From the hall, boots squeak and voices mingle, soft. The A/C kicks on and runs like water over James’s hand. Thready linen registers under his palm; he hadn’t realized he’d put it there. Under the sheets Keith is a collection of long limbs, throat bare without armor or the stuffy Garrison collar, shoulders sharper, jaw sharper, eyes sharper. All angles, but just as graceful in a hospital bed as with a sword in hand, righteous fury behind every move.

James blames it on the lamplight.

“You want us to _what_?”

Commander Holt pinches the bridge of his nose, rests his other hand on the holo in front of the table. “As I’ve said before, the tech to power the particle barrier lies on those Galra cruisers. I’m not sending you in there blind-”

“No, just,” James narrows his eyes, “MFE-less.”

“We can’t risk losing those crystals, and a low-tech infiltration is our safest bet.”

“Sir,” Leifsdottir objects, “with the odds provided and the estimated supply specs on those cruisers, they’d run out long before we’d manage to reach the nearest cruiser on foot. Even with a jeep able to hit sixty mph, if we left right now, they could be gone.”

“Or dead,” Kinkade adds, “what with their habit of wiring everything with a self-destruct mechanism.”

“I’ve considered that,” Holt says. He clicks through the next few slides, and James gets the sense that the decision has already been made. “Which is why two of you are going to take a Galra fighter from the city’s edge to cruiser 1b, and the other two will hang back in the MFEs. Get in, get the crystals, get out. If you have to punch through, punch through, but don’t let _anything_ happen to those crystals.”

Rizavi gestures to the feed of the broken cruiser. “There are a hundred of those things out there. _Unguarded_.”

“None of them have the same source crystal, though. The interaction between that and our particle barrier’s power source is unique, and the fact that the barrier is still un-operational means we blew up the wrong ship.”

James swivels his chair. “And I’m guessing that they’re wired in a way that makes a replacement for the barrier impossible, right?”

“Exactly. Now, to work out some kinks...”

The mission starts off well enough, but turns. In and out becomes halfway in, under fire, in, under more fire, and _then_ out, and then an explosion thanks to those self destruct codes, but James only sees the extent of their mistake after they realize what _else_ had gotten out before the fireworks started.

“Liefsdottir, where are you?” he says, punching the micropulse blaster, sky and ground blurring after he jerks the MFE into a spin. “That ship just released every fighter on board!”

“Two hundred meters from the blast, and counting. And there are two hundred and eleven fighters, by the way, so not all of-”

“Just get around them!”

He opens fire. On his seven, Rizavi does the same, mutters indecipherable over the comm. The swarm turns, almost collective, but some zero in on the deviant fighter; Kinkade doesn’t fire, as if that will make a difference. James almost orders him too. No- there’s still a chance the Galra won’t bother. He fires again.

Again, again. Kinkade turns the guns on the fleet.

  
They break from the dogfight with minimal damage, but that could prove temporary with a hundred and fifty-something fighters on their tail.

“Griffin, the Garrison’s defenses are still down! We’ll lead them straight to it!”

“Liefsdottir and Kinkade won’t make it without cover fire, Rizavi, and unless you’ve got a better idea-”

“Guys, Garrison isn’t responding,” Kinkade interrupts. “Someone’s jammed our link.”

James banks; a shot sears the right side of his cockpit. Ouch. That’s gonna be a pain to buff out.

“I still think we should draw the fleet back-”

“If we pull back, they’ll go for the Garrison anyway,” he cuts in. “Our best shot is a sprint, we won’t make it much longer trying to pick these guys off one at a time. Rizavi- cover their left, Kinkade, find a way to break that lock and Liefsdottir, keep the maneuvers easy enough for us to follow but not for the fighters to predict, does everyone _copy_?”

Between shots and exploding fighters, there’s a terse silence.

“Copy,” Kinkade says.

“Copy,” Liefsdottir echoes.

Rizavi maneuvers to their left. “You’d better be right about this, Griffin.”  


  
“Alright, we’re almost there. Platform in sight. Rizavi, that wave that fell behind is catching up on your three, keep an eye on them.” James has the feeling that the fleet commander will wait for an opening. He swerves the couple of rogue fighters that continue to badger his peripheral and releases a noise through clenched teeth.

“Tower four, do you copy?”

“Copy. We’ve scrambled ground defenses. Be advised that you are in the line of fire.”

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Rizavi pulls up just as the short-range missiles go off. At the border station, Liefsdottir and Kinkade decelerate and land, haphazard, beside the solar-panel pattern that generates the barrier; they’re minuscule, only visible for a flash before James banks again and takes aim. Three fighters go down. Four, five. Rizavi chases one off his tail. He makes another pass. She follows. The tower takes a hit. Ground troops dash away from falling particles of plane, brick and projectile. Liefsdottir shouts at Kinkade, who shouts back, and James wants to know what the _hell is taking them so long-_

Fwoom!

Hexagonal shields flicker into place. Within seconds, the dome closes.

  
They’re met with cheers on the platform. Kinkade and Liefsdottir sprint for the planes; James jumps down and swipes his sleeve over his temple. “Everyone okay?”

“Okay.”

“Been better, but, yeah.”

“Rizavi-”

An arm hooks around his neck, and she nudgies a fistful of his hair. “ _Jerk_. This is why your life expectancy is lower.”

“Hey!”

Liefsdottir tilts her head. “She’s right, you know.”

“ _Hey!_ ”

  
“The other two cruisers are just over halfway to the city,” Holt continues at debrief, scribbling over his holo map, notes and nav guides. He’d write on the walls if he needed to. “Now that our barrier is operational, they’ll have nowhere to go but east. When that happens, the MFEs will intercept and attack.”

“Why wait?” Kinkade frowns.

“Why do you think?” Rizavi shoots back, “those scorch marks not a hint? They’re gonna wire the whole thing to blow if we attack directly. Bastards.”

Liefsdottir hums. “Almost guaranteed that wiring both systems is a four man -Galra?- job, if any of their engineer techs survived. Given the odds -sixty percent, give or take- and the time elapsed already, they’d have set the explosives by now. Food runs out in a week. I give it two before they make a run.”

“Two weeks,” Holt repeats, and sets his marker down. “Until then, I’m putting you all on disaster relief. Report to Iverson tomorrow morning, o-seven hundred.” Chairs scrape the floor, and Liefsdottir gathers her papers. James studies the holos while they shuffle to the door, then follows, but Holt motions him to pause, glasses halfway down his nose, brows pinched. 

James glances toward the hall, then back. “Something wrong, sir?”

“Keith took a turn while you were out,” Holt says, and holds up his hand when James opens his mouth. “He’s- stable, now, but he did ask to be notified when you came back. If I were you, I’d wait until morning, but-”

The door jars his wrist when he shoves it open.

  
James takes the stairs up two flights before he remembers that elevators are a thing. The button almost cracks; he jams it a few more times, just in case, and jiggles his leg all the way up. Vaguely, the sweat in his bangs and smoke stains up and down his armor register as a less than ideal mix with antiseptic or fresh linen, but as soon as the doors _swshh_ open, he hits the hall running. The thrum under his skin is leftover fight. The bird-flap swing of his stomach is, too.

Keith sits up when he crosses the threshold, knocking twice. Two Blades sit close to the bed, one with a sharp chin and blue eyes, vaguely familiar, and the other, the grizzled veteran- their leader? As James hesitates, they exchange a glance, then stand to ruffle Keith’s hair and squeeze his shoulder, and leave. Add that to the question.

“They your superiors?” James asks, abandoning the door.

A smile plays over all of Keith’s features. “Something like that.”

“I tried to visit sooner- they sent me out, and Holt had a dozen missions-”

“Heh. Figured.”

A step closer. Machines and papers and chairs surround him, painted ember-gold from the lamp.

“Had enough beauty sleep, then?”

“More than you, by the look of it,” Keith grins, and James cracks. The bed is hospital-stiff under his thighs, and he draws Keith into a hug, hair brushing his ear; Keith fumbles, freezes, sleep warm, his leg pressed against James’s. His hand settles on James’s neck. Then his head, tilted from the other side. He’s smaller than James expected, or remembered. A protective twinge grows under his chestplate.

“It’s dangerous out there,” he says, “I don’t need orders to want to fix that.”

Keith exhales and wraps his arm around James’s waist. “Didn’t think you would.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter note on the second one was meant for the first, but ao3 keeps messing it up?? anyway here comes a tiiiny bit of angst

Debris disappears. Smoke dissipates into blue skies and translucent wisps of white, buildings crumble, brick replaces their foundations and neighbors come together for one big, city-wide barn raising, a house at a time. Griffin hauls supplies and cuts down stragglers from the last sweep of fighters. Keith grins when he pushes open the door at the end of the day, sweaty and satisfied, and gives him the run down. Veronica joins the squadron after they uncover a second network of tunnels to the sub-city. Rizavi jumps into her arms when they meet in the hangar.

“Woah there,” she chuckles. “I knew you guys missed me, but.”

“No but,” James says, and nudges her shoulder on his way to the planes. “It’s good to have you on board.”

Refugees shout and swarm once they find the break in the tunnels, and half the relief team siphons down to pull them out, passing blankets, water, and food. Dirty hands clutch James’s gloves. Thump his shoulder, ruffle his hair. Children cling to his legs and gush about superheroes. He collapses beside Kinkade, against ration crates, at the end of the day, and sleeps until a cadet rouses him. Liefdsottir and Rizavi have joined the pile, draped against his side and Veronica and squished by Kinkade’s sprawl across several laps.

Momentum builds. The refugees meet the sun, and the city rises. Keith stands on the launch platform, arms crossed, black shirt tight across his elbows and chest, then against James’s sun-hot armor when he allows himself to be lifted off the ground. He laughs, starburst bright like his eyes when James sets him down.

The Garrison crowds with hungry mouths and helping hands and the chatter of reconstruction, newly hyped. Iverson even smiles- once. A whirlwind of color and orders and his team around him, the eyes of the city on them.

Peace, almost.

  
“We’ve got a problem,” Veronica calls. Her tapping fills the room, and Iverson swings his gaze over, disgruntled at the interruption. “Sorry, sir. It’s the two cruisers near the city, I’ve found a discrepancy with the feed.”

“Hell do you mean, McClain? We’ve run that thing through every bug detector in the system.”

“I’m aware, sir, but this is- I’ve never seen a loop this smooth. There might have been a minor hack while the Galra engineers had a link with the particle barrier.”

James sits forward. Rizavi props her chin on her fist and asks, “is that even possible? Seems kind of sci-fi, even for you.”

“Their tech is- highly advanced, I wouldn’t put it past them. Let me see if I can-”

The image blows across the holo screen; a side-lying cruiser, its ion cannon strewn in pieces around the hull. Smoke whips left and right, and the sun moves up and down, an indication that time passes- but as James puts his attention fully into it, he notices something. “The smoke patterns are the same. The clouds.”

“They’ve left the cruisers,” Veronica says, stricken, and for a moment no one speaks.

  
“Rizavi, bank! Kinkade, cover her- I’ve got the two o’clock, head for the tower!”

“Where did these guys come from?”

“Where do you think?!”

Liefsdottir’s controlled voice comes over a bed of static. “The Galra on board must have judged that their fighters would be too slow to reach heights optimal for maneuvering through the Garrison’s cover fire.”

“Ha,” Rizavi barks, veering away from James’s left. “Guess they panicked after we blew the other one up.”

“The _wrong_ one.”

“C’mon, Kinkade. Now we get to take ‘em on in our element.”

“Four o’clock!”

James swerves. Bam, bam, the fighter implodes, shrapnel _tings_ off his left wing. Up, through two more, around to catch them before he pulls up again. Dammit. And he thought they’d have their hands full with keeping the escapees from getting to the city.

He steers the fight further out in the desert, but the fighters round them back toward the cruiser. Rizavi takes too many hits and needs to recharge. Kinkade mows down enough fighters that James and Liefsdottir break through and deliver the final blow; the cruiser erupts, the ground troops go down, they turn around. Three Garrison planes in the dust. MFEs drained.

Failure. By the time they make it to tactical HQ, too rushed to strip out of their suits, he expects the worst.

“There’s been no distress signals from the city,” Veronica informs the room, throwing feeds and radio transcripts onto the holo. “The feed of the last cruiser is irreparable.”

“What?” James rakes a hand through his hair. “We didn’t see any movement between the cruisers and the city- are you saying they managed to make it in undetected?”

A murmur goes through the room. Veronica draws up a new map. “It’s possible. There’s a set of tunnels that start close to where the cruisers landed. It runs all the way to the west end of the city-”

“-where most of the Galra retreated after their cruisers went down,” James finishes.

“Exactly. And... since we have no idea when their time of departure was...”

It’s all the more probable. He pushes his other hand in his hair and squeezes his eyes shut. There are dozens of people still trapped in that half of the city. Hundreds. How many are dead now because of an oversight? What if there was something he could have done? Check the feed sooner, or the cruiser on the way back, hell- even torching it at the risk of the MFEs would have been something. His fist hits the table.

“We could still try to intercept. Lay down some cover for the citizens, something.”

“Griffin... there’s a reason we haven’t broken past the middle of the city. The Atlas took some heavy damage, and rushing in without it is asking for another beating. The best we can do is what we’ve _been_ doing.”

“Look where that’s gotten us,” he mutters, and everyone around the table looks away.

Defeat winds through the Garrison like rain on a sunny window sill. James carries it to the hospital wing, stands beside Keith’s sleeping form, and sits it down on the table, unable to communicate. Keith rouses anyway and tugs at his pocket. Weak. His skin is alabaster. James turns the lamp on and settles on the bed behind him, curls around him. One day’s leave. He could spend it all here, and it wouldn’t be enough to shake the gross fuzz that fuels his headache.

Shoulders slumped, hands tucked under the pillow, exhaustion weighs on his edges in a new way. Before, James knew he was worn, but this...

He nudges his arm around Keith’s ribs. Their elbows tangle, then their knees.

“Miss me?”

Keith says nothing, but his hand brushes James’s, then holds it.

  
Night passes in fits of consciousness. Then morning. Keith sleeps longer than he should.

It goes through James’s mind: school, a scene that wasn’t a photo yet, wasn’t a memory, Keith’s bag gone from the end of his bed. He’d stolen Shirogane’s bike. He’d taken off for the desert, said the cadets. A wreck when he left.

Keith shivers. Dreaming. James lays on his back after Keith rolls away, tracing patterns in the speckled ceiling tile.

He sleeps, finally.

  
The bed misses weight when he jolts from a dream. He scrambles for the table, his boots, the door- his shoulder _thwacks_ the post before he hits the hall, spins from left to right to left, and sprints for the first room he thinks Keith might go for. It’s night again. A few hours, and he’ll be in a cockpit, barking orders. Guilt swoops through his gut, and he sucks air through his teeth; three smashed planes to show for it, that position destabilizes, suddenly, but the anxiety accompanying it feels like someone else’s.

He skids into the sim floor, high-flung instructor’s chamber littered with blinking lights. None of the sims are active. Keith wanders through them, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers. James lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d held.

“Faster than I expected,” Keith says, amused, then tosses over his shoulder, “had enough beauty sleep?”

James could tackle him.

“Shut up,” he says instead. “What are you doing out here?”

His shadow crawls over the domed cabins, the controls that wrap around half the room. James sighs and follows, weaving, steps loud to his own ears. It would be so easy to call it a night, but a part of him has the image of holding Keith against a corner until he explains. It’s hard to look away after that.

“I heard about the mission,” Keith says. He stops and leans his shoulder on a sim, weight shifted to one hip.

James laughs, bitter. “No kidding. Bad news goes around faster than good.” He comes to the sim and mirrors Keith’s position, tilts his head. “You keeping tabs on me?”

“Still waiting for that answer.”

James hesitates. Keith’s eyes dart over his face, patient like he never used to be. The fight did a number on him; this isn’t the product of cabin fever or irritation, though. Restlessness, maybe. One thing James can understand.

“You never ask for anything,” he murmurs, “but you looked like you wanted to.”

In the courtyard, he means. Surrounded, but alone, ever contrary.

“What about you?”

“I don’t need to ask.”

Keith’s eyes widen, then flit up and down James, like he sees him in a different light. Good. The tease of explaining himself has lost its appeal since yesterday, when things came into perspective, and he misses Keith’s heat tucked between his arms enough to admit to himself.

“I just wanted a... second chance,” he says, and when Keith doesn’t respond, he pushes off the sim, to leave.

Two steps, and Keith gets hold of the back of his shirt. He hesitates. It feels invasive; no armor, not after that, and Keith will read it on him. He turns. Keith stares. Woody soap-smell comes off of him, the same as the linens. And James’s citrus shampoo. Traces left from being pressed close.

“I owe you a ride,” Keith says, “as soon as Iverson cuts you off.”

And that thing he's been chasing- it’s there, clear as the flash of his sword in the sun. James could close the distance, draw him in the way he wants, do- _something_. Keith has a hundred edges and tells and shadows; high school and a couple years of bad decisions don’t mean jackshit compared to a war, loss and this quiet bruise every time he breathes. Like something he could come home to. Like something _Keith_ would come home to.

“Could be a while,” he says, remembering curling paper and candles.

Keith’s mouth quirks up at the edges.

“I’ll wait.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> changing the chapter number to ? because this is getting away from me, but like, I'm HERE for it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you see auroras in the desert? you ask. I have no idea, I reply. is sablan the highest authority in post-apocalyptic earth? probably not, but in this fic he is. also where is the timeline

The castle glows at night. Cold steel, ceramic walls lined in blues and greens, same as a glimpse of the aurora over the desert. Keith skates his fingers along a corner and takes the right. Heat expels from the grate near his feet, burns his joggers against his ankle. Doors open. Stars litter the long window, bordered in video-game-orange, streaking the boundary, burnt in seconds. He raises his hand, and glass sucks the heat from his palm.

He jerks awake under the blankets.

  
“More evacuees have come down from the north. We’re running out of room, and resources.”

“Hasn’t the upper state cleared most of the wreckage?”

“Yes, but the damage is too extensive to house so many survivors.”

Keith traces a groove in the table. It’s the same gray-blue as the Marmorian cruiser.

“Keith,” Kolivan prompts, and he jumps, curls his fingers, scans the map. Purple lines areas of the desert; northern canyons and caves, fringe cities, tunnel systems. His shack.

“It’s... been months since the battle. I think we’ve spread reinforcements as far as we can.”

Kolivan’s frown deepens, slightly. “You think another attack will occur.”

“Those cruisers in Platt City won’t be on the ground forever,” he says. Sablan glares, Kolivan’s frown turns into a grimace, and Holt shuffles papers nervously. Shit. If Kolivan wants to keep the Garrison from feeling so threatened, maybe he should let his subordinates know before asking their opinions. Keith scrubs a hand over his eyes as his C.O.’s mutter from the other side of the table.

“That’s... enough for today,” Shiro says, and taps his pencil against his papers. “Let’s check in at borders and refugee tents, make sure we’re making progress. We’ll reconvene if anything else comes up.”

  
Things come up. First, captured Galra revolt and burn a quarter of one of the fringe cities, then more do the same to the south. Cruisers self destruct, scattering travelers and cutting off railroad lines. It won’t be long until mercenaries go after Coalition leaders around the region.

Voltron goes out for short range, low risk missions only. Drop supplies, pick off some fighters, make appearances, raise morale. Let people know that life goes on. When Shiro says it, Keith’s mind goes to ridiculous skits broadcast in the Blade cruiser, or flashing across his holo-watch during missions, but he shakes it. This is Earth. They’ve seen what Voltron can do.

The dreams continue, though.

  
“Keith,” someone says. He wrestles into a sitting position, breath torn in and out of his chest. The view of an ion cannon, head on and up close, charging to disintegrate him, disappears. James grips his shoulder. Smoke and cement dust streak his face, his suit; it rolls off him like wavers on a car hood, but Keith breathes easier.

“Said you’d gotten a new room, looks nice. I would’ve gone a size up from broom closet, though.”

Keith pushes at him, halfhearted, and fights a smile with the same vigor. “When’d you get back?”

“Just now.”

“How’s the line?”

His expression sobers, but the smile doesn’t disappear. “We’re gaining ground. A few blocks at a time, but it’s something.” The band around Keith’s chest loosens. James jerks his chin toward the door. “You coming or not?”

Somewhere around month two, it became part of- _this_ ; a mission gone wrong, his frustration with a nurse and suddenly they’d broken three Garrison protocols to splay out on the roof. Today the halls are crowded, recruits lost. Keith runs into bags and shoulders and service dogs -Kosmo sleeps like the dead, so he’ll miss the action- and even stumbles over someone’s luggage. Poor guy. He has the sudden image of Iverson dumping clothes on the floor, and when James glances back, humor dancing across his eyes, he knows they’ve had the same thought.

If this is what he does with a second chance, Keith could imagine worse.

“Kinkade got some photos while we were out there, here,” he says, once they’ve broken away from the crowd and climbed the stairs. “Guess it’s kind of mundane to you guys.”

Keith takes the slick nine-by-five. Orion’s belt. “Nice.”

James pushes the door open. “Get up to anything while we were out?”

“Disaster relief. Dropped some ground droids. More of the same.”

“I meant _besides_ the general imperative, smartass.”

“Not more than you did.”

He laughs, like he’s- charmed. The word sits oddly, and Keith chews on it as he follows to the edge of the railed-off area, rests his arms on the guard, but James holds up a photo against the stars and distracts him. “See this one on your way out?”

The Pleiades. Keith nods.

“This one?”

“Yeah.”

“This one?”

“James.”

He looks up, still smiling. Keith shifts his weight to one foot. “The Galra are regrouping. You’ve seen it. I need to talk the Garrison into preventative measures.”

One dark brow draws down, and he pockets the pictures. “You- don’t have that kind of clearance.”

“I know.”

“That why you’re having nightmares?”

“It’s not- no-”

“Something’s eating you, Kogane, I’m not blind.”

He tips his head when he says it, and wind brushes a lock of hair across his forehead. Keith searches for a response. Doesn’t have one. James has an inch on him and about twenty pounds, and owns it. Always bullheaded. Weirdly attentive. The Marmora could have used a hundred of him while Voltron was off throwing parades and littering merchandise across five galaxies, or any of the Coalition with a real military force at their backs.

“It’s- nothing,” he says again, and almost believes it.

  
Three days later, he eats his words.

“What are you doing? You had him!” he exclaims.

The cadet shoots him a look. “Protocol says I can’t take the shot if there’s a Garrison craft in the line of fire.”

“So don’t miss!”

Hedrick takes his shoulder and steers him a bit away. “Kogane.” He motions toward the door. “Come on.” Keith shakes him off, but follows; Hedrick’s got about two heads on him, and he’s been in big-brother mode long enough that Keith doesn’t doubt his capacity to pick someone up and carry them away from the sim floor. They stop beside the desk and leaderboard, below observation. It isn’t the same room as the one he left James in several weeks ago, but it’s close enough that there’s something missing.

“Look.” Hedrick pinches the space between his blond brows. “You know how the chain of command works, Sablan let you in for info direction, not supervision.”

“They’re training for extra-atmosphere defense. I can’t have them flinch away from life saving shots because of a rulebook!”

“And- I get that,” he sighs, then rubs his beard, eyes shifted to their waiting students. “But if we’re doing our job right, they won’t have to make those decisions.”

“I’m not going to coddle them.”

“Neither am I. But-” he lowers his voice, “Kogane, you’ve been in the shit so long that it’s hard to dig out of that mindset. I get it, okay? I was in those tunnels, I’ve seen what the Galra can do.”

Keith’s fingers curl. “Then you know how important this is.”

Hedrick scrubs a hand over his eyes. Keith makes a conscious effort to relax, then steps back a bit, Krolia’s voice in his ears- you can only do so much to pitch a person against their authorities. Kolivan had shot her a look, after, but it was less critical than appraising. Like he couldn’t believe they worked well. Keith knows the feeling. 

“You’re a classic Maverick, huh?” Hedrick finally says, and jabs his finger at Keith’s chest. “Okay. But if this gets back to Sablan, it’s on your head.”

“Thanks,” Keith mutters as he passes. He waves him off without looking back.

A string of perfect days fall side by side; no Galra incidents arise in the cities surrounding the Garrison, Keith gets leave to train younger Marmorans in hand-to-hand, Iverson and Sablan get into it over some paperwork and forget to make sure the Paladins aren’t pulling political weight.

“We could take command of the Garrison at this point,” he mentions to Shiro, who laughs, scandalized. “I’ll supervise away missions.”

“And what happens when you run out of cities to fix?”

“Go find some.”

It’s as easy as coming to heel for admirals and commanders and what else. Easier, even, and his dreams fluctuate from those sleepless moments to the thrill of chases, victories. Liberation. To say that he misses the worse part of the war is ridiculous, but- he can’t shake the feeling that a door closed on his back, and the room it pushed him to could hold just as many trials or fears or regrets, and then some. He likes to be useful. But...

 _Miss me?_ James had asked. Always soaked with the smell of earth, exhaust fumes, engine heat.

  
The bomb drops after communication with fringe city 3a goes out.

“This was clearly a premeditated takeover, we have to do something,” Pidge argues, but Sablan waves his hand.

“The MFE’s can handle it after they recharge.”

“Can they? Those things have extended range thanks to my father, but even a hundred fifty miles is too much. We need to get there with sustainable weapons _now_."

“The Atlas is nearly operational.”

“It’s _weeks_ away from being operational!”

“We can’t rush into this,” Shiro interrupts, but his jaw twitches. “Let’s consider all our options. MFE’s run out of juice within six hours, which is less than ideal-”

“-and they’re needed in Platt City, indefinitely,” commander Holt finishes.

Keith frowns. “Indefinitely?”

“Regardless,” Sablan adds, not having heard, “Voltron should remain at the Garrison in case more Galra make a run for us.” And that- that’s too much.

“No one in their right mind would rush the Garrison underequipped,” Keith says. “We can do more out there than we can here.”

Shiro starts, “Keith-”

“Voltron is a symbol of hope, I get it. But there’s a reason it has a sword.”

The collection of C.O.’s at the back of the table stop talking. Iverson looks hard at Keith, like he’s been handed an old picture of himself that he dislikes; Keith stares back, conviction sealed, because Kolivan wore the same face after his remark on the cruisers rising. Someone has to defer. Why should it be the truth? And just because they’re afraid?

“Are you sure about this?”

Keith adjusts his gauntlet and braces against a gust; the last of the Garrison cargo planes takes off, a spot on the horizon in seconds. “There’s good people out there. We need to help.”

“That’s all?” James backs away as cadets run past, brows pinched together. “Keith, you went against Sablan- you made this decision without consulting the Coalition-”

“I know.”

“-like this is deep space, or there’s no choice- but this isn’t deep space,” he insists. “I don’t see wh-”

A cadet approaches, ignores James completely, and hands Keith a holo full of checked boxes. The knot in his stomach unwinds; he thanks them, passes on a message for Pidge, and returns the holo, much to James’s chagrin. Keith gives him a questioning look. He rakes a hand through his hair. Doesn’t he get it? The Coalition would rather have Voltron make house calls all day before sending them out on a mission that matters, and Keith had to watch the fallout of that already.

“Keith,” James says, and steps forward, grips his shoulder, “you don’t have to do this alone.”

Something clicks. From the outside, his actions add up; an intergalactic soldier runs toward the first fight to manifest after a war, bypasses the chain of command, skips the explanations and goes straight to effective measures. It wasn’t such a popular tactic back then, either. 

“I’m not doing this alone,” he answers, and pats James’s shoulder as he passes, “just faster than everyone else.”

  
There isn’t much damage. These Galra planned for months.

“Alright team, we’re going in quick and getting out quicker. Keep an eye on those towers, stability looks jacked.”

“Ha. How about I poke it and find out?” Pidge asks.

“If you think it’ll flush these guys out any faster.”

Everyone laughs. Lance appears in his peripheral, cerulean a couple shades darker than blue skies. No clouds- at least they won’t have to worry about an ambush, but then, there’s no way the Galra anticipated Voltron showing up, either; the MFE’s and fighter jets have been most active since the battle. He pulls around the back of city hall. Scratch that- someone has been busier.

Cruisers. Four, no- five. A horde of fighters, all modded like the ones James had shown him pictures of. Lance comes up short beside him.

“Let’s get to work,” Keith says, and powers up his wings.

  
The fight isn’t easy, but it isn’t tough. Keith takes down one cruiser, Lance and Pidge get another, Allura joins them to take down the third, and it’s a collective effort to blow the last two into little shrapnel bits. What’s bothersome is fighters swarmed at their backs every time something lion-shaped fires at something violet. At one point the idiots shoot down their own jets.

“Woah, guys, are you seeing this?” Lance calls. Keith tips southwest and peers out his side window. “They’re gunning for themselves!”

“Droid-piloted fighters for two-hundred, please,” Pidge answers, and _chuk-chuk_ s a pair into a warehouse skeleton.

Allura adds, “of course, how else could they have corralled the civilians into emergency shelters? These must have been the mercenaries Sendak employed.”

“Not very good ones. This wiring job’s a mess...”

“Pidge, are you- you’re not dissecting one of those things-”

“Relax, relax, Keith, I sent out Rover 2.0, I’m just taking a look.”

“You’re gonna get it blown up again!”

“You wanna bet?”

He swerves as an ion ray slams the air where his wing just was, and swears. “There’s the firepower. Hunk, got a visual?”

“Uh- negative, but- oh man-”

“What?"

“It’s just- judging from the angle and width, that looks like a ground built cannon. So, uh, not one of the Galra’s.”

“You’re saying it came from the civilians?”

“Yeah, and uh- I think they’re charging it up again.”

  
Within the third hour, all that’s left of the cruisers is scorch marks, only an eighth of the fighters remain -and they’re cautious- and Pidge has managed to pinpoint the location of the cannon. City hall is a crater, but the Galra inside managed to jump fighters after they fled, and shots come too quickly for Keith to block. His wings only provide so much cover- they sap energy fast, too.

“Pidge, I need some cover!”

Hunk shadows him, and the nearest jet explodes. “I got you, man. How’re you holding up?”

A stray bolt rattles his cockpit. He grunts. “Drained. You?”

“Eh, I’ve been worse. Come on, you need a lift-”

 _Fwoom_. Another ion beam, meters away. Keith swears. The tower crumbles, hole blasted near the base, but the swaying gives him an idea.

“Pidge, how close are the civilians to the cannon?”

“Uh- six blocks, it’s remote activated.”

“And they’re all in bunkers?”

“My radar would have picked up stragglers. They’re all inside. What are you-?”

“Cutting this mission off,” he says, and blasts the tower. It tips, groans and shrieks, then collapses. He catches flashes, slow motion-like, and the last of the fighters combust, too close to the last ion beam. Glass and metal sprays into a violet gush. The ground shakes; roofs collapse, walls crumble, and then a cloud of dust rises, too dense to make out the final implosion.

  
Fast, as it turns out, wins the fight. One day, one battle, the invaders aren’t just run out- they’re destroyed. Minimal structural damage, minimal casualties. Galra there one day and gone the next. When Keith steps onto the hangar floor, personnel corral him and the team, and he has to fight through until a familiar uniform pushes toward him, flanked by three others. Pulse rapid, he’s too keyed up to offer more than a nudge of gratitude.

The team combines again in the hall before the lift, but James stays shoulder-to-shoulder. Aches make themselves known. Wounds he thought were healed from the big battle. Krolia’s going to give him so much grief. The lift doors open, and one step out, pain hits his midsection, right where the last stitches are still in. He grimaces.

Sablan lays into them as soon as the room assembles, but he’s always got a bone to pick. Holt interrupts with an estimate of avoided casualties, about halfway through, and flashes a smile at the Paladins; Hunk un-tenses and Pidge glows, which disheartens Sablan’s vigor somewhat. By the end, Keith pulls up a pattern in the invaders’ path through the city, recognition nagging, and sorts through past missions to root it out. Shiro pats his shoulder and suggests a drink, but Keith waves him off. Eventually he has the room.

“Hey.”

Almost.

“Team’s going out to town for the night, you want to tag along?”

“Can’t,” Keith says, and swipes three maps side by side on the tablet. Three entry points, from all of them, but the Galra in the most recent city had four exit points. Was there a scout squadron sent beforehand? He scrolls back-

James’s hand closes over his. “Keith, take a break.”

“Something isn’t right. I have to look over the reports.”

“Deal with it tomorrow.”

His voice is off. Keith glances up and lets out a half breath, half-huff. “You don’t understand. Voltron doesn’t have oversights, I can’t leave without checking this out.”

“Holt’s done statistic, diagnostic and predictive runs, through multiple programs.”

“How about comparative?”

“ _Keith_."

James’s mouth is curled down. Eyes soft. He looks like someone just told him he couldn’t veer into a rough patch of sky, but in the privacy of the cabin, a side of every pilot that stays unseen. Keith almost asks what the hell is wrong, but he pulls out the chair beside Keith and sits, releases his hand, rests it on the table and starts scrolling through the reports himself. Keith exhales again, short. _Unbelievable_.

They don’t find a similarity. Anywhere. A dozen reports, two dozen after James bypasses some security code even he shouldn’t have access to, then some. Keith sits back by the time they’ve hacked halfway into a gag (Pidge-designed) that lights up cartoon faces across the screen. His phone buzzes.

_quit messing with my codes and go to sleep, maniac_

He checks the clock- nearly one.

_hate you too._

_Lance wants to know if u need someone to carry u to ur room_

His eyes go to James, who types quickly to back out of Pidge’s program of madness, oblivious. Heat crawls into his cheeks. Shit. Maybe he’d strained more injuries than he thought on the mission. He types a simple ‘no’ and clicks his phone off.

“Leave me to clean up your mess, huh?” James asks, but he’s signing off, finished. Keith has the sudden vision of him hunched over a desk, scribbling, then an engine, then the Black Lion’s wrecked inside. He scrubs a hand across his eyes. Sleep loss. That’s what this is. The screen at the end of the table dims and the room sinks into theatre-like dark, punctuated every two feet by the blinking lights on tablets or keypads and the hand scanner beside the door, mocking exhaustion. Yesterday he was ducking through halls to get to the roof, one year into sims and a race to reach the sky.

“When do you leave?” he asks. The door’s scanner blinks orange in a two-one beat.

“O-eight hundred.”

And Voltron gets handed off to domestic queries again. He shifts and sits back in the chair. Restless, or something close to it. 

“We’ll be back in a week or so,” James says, standing. He shrugs on his jacket, bends, and presses his mouth to Keith’s temple. “Try to get some sleep, overachiever.”

Keith stares after him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wheezes* I just want to get back to the cuddling now HECK

A week or so, then two. The mundane missions continue, but Hedrick’s class shapes up, and steady reports file in about the ground gained in Platt City. Galra occupy several others to the southwest, but they don’t find that out until Pidge intercepts a message. It’s from an officer’s brother. He collapses into a chair, bloodless, when Pidge plays it. 

Keith argues Sablan into using the sword again.

“Lance, take the cannon! Pidge, that’d better not be Rover 3.0!”

“Relax, relax. Just collecting some intel- gives us a one up on the modded fighters.”

He groans and _chunks_ the right control back, clouds whirl past the screen, and the sharp buzz intensifies; maybe after the battle, Hunk can engineer some weapon that targets whatever’s making that damn noise. Surely Sablan would fit _that_ to the Atlas, or find some use.

“Come on,” he says, two hours later, “I want to get back by dinner.”

Hunk chuckles. “I second that, totally.”

“Putting down roots so fast, Keith?”

“Shut up Lance, we all saw you and Allura making eyes at each other beside the Atlas repairs.”

“Wh- _Pidge_!”

“Enough,” Keith snaps.

“It’s true,” Allura admits, “but I believe Keith is no better when it comes to a certain MFE pil-” The others erupt into panicked shushing, like it’s some secret he’s not in on. Disgruntled, and slightly betrayed by his own position, he shuts off the transmission. Hopefully it emotes an adequate message. God, he’s starting to understand why Shiro’s so eager to get the Atlas operational again- less ribbing, more straightforward, quick victories, though he wouldn’t know, he never piloted the damn thing.

“At least Iverson lost the stink-eye, right?” Hunk asks, once they’ve returned -success at their heels- and gotten a spare hour to prepare for some Balmeran celebration held in the mess. “That’s gotta count for something, and- this’ll help, I mean.” He readjusts his bowtie for the fifteenth time, then pats back his gelled hair; Lance snickers, Keith elbows him, and they both lunge for the other _normal_ tie at the same time and grapple momentarily. Lance gets it, and Keith gets a face-full of horrible cologne. He coughs and retreats to the corner, but it just gives Romelle easier access to corner him and fuss.

“What would help _more_ is a giant power switch to get the Atlas off the ground,” Pidge huffs from the couch, struggling with a boot. “I could probably make one, too, if Sablan would give me friggin’ clearance.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Lance says. “After we secured the Garrison, it’s like the guy forgot about the rest of the world.”

Shiro offers a hand with the tie. “It’s not that simple. He’s grappling with the Coalition, mostly.”

“Really,” Keith mutters, “you’d think someone had a gun to his head every time he loosens up.”

“Well, there’s not much we can do about it,” Shiro replies.

“You’re one to talk,” Lance says, to Keith.

“ _Lance_.”

The celebration is like all of these things: loud, crowded, obnoxious. Coalition leaders from obscure planets that barely showed up to the fight claim some personal stake in the success of the Paladins, and make it known. Keith forces himself to mingle. It’s not as hard as it used to be, but every now and then he gets a glimpse of the star-studded backdrop at the south windows and something tightens in his chest.

“You look like a rockstar, I can’t believe Shirogane stuffed you into that,” says someone.

Keith’s mouth quirks without permission, and he sets his glass on an empty table, turns. It’s some Pavlovian response- the second James barrels into a greeting, volume a smooth line of just-below-answering-to-a-C.O., his heat on Keith’s back flashes there, like muscle memory. He’s in uniform. Probably just got back.

“Want to dance?” he prompts, hands shoved in his pockets, arrogant enough that Keith almost says yes.

“Don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“Ooh, low blow, but I’ll give it to you. Holt gave us the night off, I’m looking for trouble.”

“You. _Trouble_."

He nudge’s Keith’s shoulder with his own and leans against the wall. “Don’t say it like that. I might be serious.”

“What, are you gonna deck me?”

He grins, and Keith grins, and Keith grabs his drink again and takes a sip for something to hide behind. That’s new. This easy thing that started from the hospital has taken on an endless warmth, and James isn’t shy about making it known. He offers his hand, glances at the other dancing people, and after a heartbeat, Keith takes it. It’s not dancing, not really- just a lot of aborted steps, arm swinging and fumbling, but they get lost in it, so maybe that’s the point. James talks about his team; Keith talks about his team. James details their progress at the line in Platt City; Keith recounts the missions and classes he’s been assigned. James leads; Keith follows.

“You never talk about it,” he starts, then hesitates when Keith gives him a blank look. “You know, before. The castle ship.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No, no, I just meant- I wondered... you came back so different.”

“Well, like you said. It was war.”

They’ve stopped, but James holds his hands. “I barely know anything about what you did, I just-”

“You’ve met Krolia and Kolivan. And- the team.”

“It’s different.”

“How?”

“There’s only one of you, Keith.”

He says it with a half-smile, half-huff, endeared again, and something unnamed swims through Keith’s chest to the tips of his fingers. From the window, the stars brighten.

* * *

Clouds curve around the earth as he falls in and out of consciousness. Tangerine-gold in the horizon. Black straps him against the seat, but the controls are dark; impact’s going to be rough. The facility flashes by, bizzarely Garrison-colored, then a space whale, then a dozen spinning jets, from another angle. Smoke plumes across the glass. It’s in the cockpit. He can’t breathe-

He starts. Kosmo lifts his head from his lap, then sets it down again with a sigh.

* * *

“The Atlas could be operational in a _week_ if you’d let me-”

“For the last time, Holt, it is out of the question.”

“It’s one city,” Keith argues, standing. Sablan repositions his glasses, dour. “The last one, we took back in a day. And this one has the resources we need to expand refugee shelters!”

Kolivan shoots him a look. “The Blade has been working tirelessly across several cities, 2c included.”

“Why is it a bad idea to let Voltron handle it?”

“Enough,” Sablan says, and rises, chin lifted. “You’ve had your battles, but the world needs to know that Voltron can be reigned in. There’s more to this work than shooting aliens out of the sky.”

He starts to leave, but Keith snaps, “then what about saving people?”

“Keith,” Shiro says.

“Those cities are full of civilians, some imprisoned-”

“And we cannot risk their liberation on a superweapon that took severe damage in its last battle!” Sablan interrupts. “The MFE’s and Atlas were experimental enough, but consider the implication that only alien technology can save humanity, think of the scrutiny the Garrison will fall under! You don’t, Kogane, and that’s the problem. And I’ve heard enough about your track record. I won’t allow an unstable pilot to tarnish the Garrison’s work.”

Shiro stands, now, and grabs Keith’s shoulder, as though he might lunge. He doesn’t. His feet are numb.

“Admiral, Keith has contributed more to this cause than most.”

Sablan approaches, puts his hands behind his back. “I’m sure that’s true. But this is Earth, Shirogane. There are nuances. Try to keep that in mind.”

  
“He’s just looking at the worst case scenario.”

Keith takes another swing; Shiro ducks. “He’s just looking for- _ugh_ \- a way to pin this on us, Shiro. We woke the Blue Lion, remember?”

He blocks, this time, and impact rings up Keith’s wrists. Damn. “The Garrison will come around. Most of them have. I mean- when was the last time Iverson restricted Voltron? A month ago?”

Keith gets a leg around him, but Shiro uses the pull from his arm to swing Keith’s weight. His back hits the mat, and he groans. “Cheater.”

“You get a head-start next time we take out the hovers.” He offers his hand, grinning, and Keith takes it, but groans again. Instead of jumping back in, Shiro grips both of his shoulders like he’s going to give him one of those stupid pep-talks. “Hey. I know this is your least favorite thing in the world. But we’re making progress.”

“In the press department?” Keith deadpans.

Shiro huffs. “Hedrick’s view on coining the new defenders of earth is... pretty popular, actually.”

“Those kids couldn’t take down a backwater base, Shiro.”

“Well, we can’t put the MFE team on everything.” He pauses and glances toward the bench. “Speaking of which...” Keith turns, half dread-driven; he shouldn’t be surprised, he’s easy enough to track down, but he didn’t see James come in. Pidge and Romelle talk animatedly at him, but he’s smiling, so that’s something. When was the last time he got back? Keith counts, realizes he’s doing it, and stops.

Shiro’s brows lift in amusement, and something crosses his eyes. It’s the same look he gets before going over a cliff. “Hey, I’ll let you take me down.”

Keith’s face heats. “He’s- not even watching.”

“He will be. Come on, use the side tackle, it shows off your arms.”

Shiro moves and Keith reacts on instinct, a little warning bell in the distance somewhere, but after Shiro hits the mat, he chances a look. Sure enough, James looks over- though the others still get some of his attention. Keith straightens and pulls Shiro up. “Happy?”

Shiro throws an arm around his shoulders and laughs. “Thank me later.”

He discards that bit of advice, even if the rest works. The MFE’s and a couple understudies drag him to a room of strangers after he’s done with classes, TV deafening, some ridiculous action flick flung wide. James hums, head tipped back on the couch. How the moderators (he uses the term loosely) managed to cram three into a single rec room astonishes him. It’s possible the first one is missing several pieces.

“You like it though? Instructing?” James asks, once Keith brings it up.

“Yeah. Makes me useful.” His head rolls toward Keith, eyes crinkled. They haven’t talked about last time. Guess it’s just a James thing. “What?”

“Nothing, I just think there’s more to what we do than how useful someone can be at it.”

“You make things harder than they need to be, Griffin.”

“I’m not the one who’s always pissing Sablan off, Kogane.”

“Touche.”

He glances at James, and James looks back, eyes crinkling further. They both chuckle. It bubbles at the base of Keith’s throat, like everything with James, wraps his ribs in smoke and warmth, the fingers of the sun after a long storm. Once, he grasped a piece of this from the time anomaly, and Krolia didn’t, and he puzzled over the edge of auburn hair and hazel eyes for weeks and weeks-

James leans close. His hand covers Keith’s, on his leg. “Can I take you somewhere?”

“I- already owe you,” Keith says, with the two neurons still firing, “a ride.”

James’s grin makes the space between them a canyon, the kind Keith would risk crashing to get through. “How about, you pay up now and the ride can come later?”

“With what?”

“Whatever you want.”

His voice softens, baritone deep. Deeper than Keith’s, by a little, and so uniform- all the wavers hammered out, only conviction left. The Garrison molded all his edges into one blunt object, but stray bolts arc from time to time; his academic obsession with astronomy, random historical comments on planes, a stray remark about a piece in the guts of an old hover. He’s three and four concentrated things at a time. Even the Galra couldn’t strip it out of him.

Keith leans in, a bit accidentally, and-

James’s watch goes off, then three others through the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Holt returns them to the line at Platt City, and they gain another block, then two. Marmorans make an entrance from the latter, where they’d been scouting, and bring up news that the Galra have a bunker prepping cruisers, fighters and tanks- all of which his C.O.’s feared, but none of them expected, at least not so soon. Huh. Looks like Keith’s intuition held up.

“I mean, the guy’s been doing this longer than us, right? Maybe he’s got a sixth sense or something,” Rizavi chatters during the strike.

Liefsdottir starts, “actually there is a mathematical science to-”

“Watch your three!” Kinkade calls. Bam, bam.

“I dunno, Liefsdottir, you heard about him being half-Galra, right?”

“Rizavi, less gossip, more blowing stuff up,” James says, but she’s on top of the next wave of fighters. He shakes his head. “Whatever he had to do with it, Kogane’s got his hands full with C.O.’s, and we’re the next line of defense, so if these guys get past us, the Garrison is in trouble.” After a silence more terse than he’d meant to invoke, he adds, “all that to say- don’t let them get past us.”

A fighter screams by his right. He swears and banks, hard. Peals of laughter erupt over the communicator.

  
Hilarious as it is, by the fourth day, they all struggle to pin enough fighters that ground defenses don’t have their hands full. James rallies one squadron to assist their slow march toward the bunker, where the Galra are no doubt packing up to disappear into the next stronghold. In pushing them to group in a bigger mass, James supposes the final stand will be easier to map, but he doesn’t like the idea of backing a wounded animal into a corner; the longer they inch the line of ground troops forward, though, the faster the Galra invent better ways to resist. They’ve learned the landscape. They’ve learned the city.

“Campers, left!” James spots from above, and takes another pass as droids pour from an unassuming office building. What’s left of it. “Hostiles southbound, they’re headed for the medical tent!”

“I got ‘em,” Kinkade answers. The stream explodes with three concise eruptions, raining dirt across a shredded metal awning. James pulls up and around. _Now_ they’ve got a problem.

“Rizavi, you cover the west end. Leifsdottir, on me.”

“Copy.”

“Copy.”

“I’ve got civilians coming up from the rear.”

“Call it in to the Blade, Kinkade, we’ve gotta get ahead.”

“They’re occupied.”

“With _what_?”

“Two more buildings. Full of droids.”

“Shit. Circle back, lay down some cover.”

“Copy.”

The worst hits them after they crack the bunker, almost completely by accident. Liefsdottir fires on random points in the city after they uncover the last immediate ambush, and James doesn’t notice until one shot blows the roof of the bunker sky high. No idea how they managed that, but cruisers criss-cross beams across the block and fighters spray out like blood from a wound. They scramble to bury the cruisers, halt the flow of Galra toward the four corners of the earth and, once that’s done, chase the escapees into a cage that the Marmorans barely set.

  
The grind doesn’t let up for days. A week or so turns into three, then four and a half after ten blocks and three bunkers they hadn’t detected. Refugees leave on cargo planes, faces bloodied and dusted, military-green blankets clutched around their shoulders. James makes rounds when he can, distributes food and water. He searches for families to reunite before they fly to the eastern shelters; every time, a spark catches, mid-abdomen, before he turns an auburn-haired woman in the search for brown eyes, the kind he doesn’t need photos to see. The fire always fizzes away, a never-ending fuse with nothing at the end.

Behind the line, the city thrives. The Garrison is safe.

James works.

  
“Griffin, visitor,” Rizavi calls from behind the curtain. He rolls off his cot, bookmarks his page on Aerospace History, Volume 5, and crosses the corner of the warehouse converted into their recent bunking situation. The canvas sheet parts. Keith’s mouth quirks up at the edge, but his eyes are dark-circled.

“Hey-” he starts, and they reach at the same time; James gets his arms around Keith first, laughs, soft, shivers when Keith’s fingers dig into his back. 

“What are you doing here?” he says into his hair.

“Blade wanted me. Tactical adviser. You okay? I heard things got rough.”

His tone falls off the last bit, like he’s run out of breath. James doesn’t loosen his grip. “Yeah, you?”

“Yeah. Yeah... things are good.”

“Feel up to a walk?”

“Yeah.”

Incandescent light streams after them; the mobile set up remains identical between locations, the only difference in the height of buildings. Tonight, ruins stretch high, but they’re still ruins. James runs his hand down Keith’s arm and lets go. When he glances toward the main tent, a Blade glares back, apparently having seen, though Keith makes no indication that anything was out of the ordinary. His heart does a flip. Iverson would smack him if he was here.

They have enemies. What’s worse: they have fans, too.

Keith doesn’t offer much: where he’s been, how the Garrison fares, his frustration with his students. They discuss the Blade’s and rebel’s progress toward the last third of the city.

“How do you think this will go down, any worse than the cruiser situation?” James asks, and jerks his head in the direction of the border.

“Not sure. From what I’ve seen, they’ll pull together for a final stand after enough diversions thin out our forces. But that's weeks from now."

“Got any advice- I mean, barring what I’m gonna hear tomorrow during debrief, but-”

Keith huffs, grinning, and stops beside the barricade. They’ve got a pretty solid view of half the camp. “They’re gonna count on you going back for your team. Don’t fall for it.”

James studies him. The smile fades. “Not unless I’m fast enough?”

“No.” He’s close enough that James can count out specks of ash in his bangs, light spots in his eyes. “Galra... they account for haste and hesitation the same.”

“I’m starting to figure that out,” James says. Red crawls from Keith’s jaws to his cheeks. The scar darkens. Where the stitches were, catch his eye. “Anything else?”

“They don’t give up. They’ll guard what they have until there’s nothing left.”

“And then what?”

“They self destruct.”

James studies him; he looks back, like it’s a challenge, one he’ll unravel. It’s not what James intended. Suddenly, he’s on the receiving end of what feels like a joke, or a dangled bit of information, and Keith isn’t half bad. He’d be enraptured anyway. _God_.

Keith takes his hand, carefully, like this is foreign, steps close. It occurs to James that he hasn’t responded the same time it occurs to him that he doesn’t know how.

Someone calls them from the main tent. Keith steps back, pressure taken off a wound.

  
“The next troop of droids and drones are three hundred yards west,” Kolivan says. Another map folds out along the holo. “We’ve been unable to disable their particle shields.”

“Aerial recon confirmed that they have hostages,” Olia adds.

“And our scouts reported a mirror position two hundred yards east,” Matt says. “Sans captives.”

“They’re gunning for a higher up.” Keith folds his arms. “We need leverage.”

“What, like one of us?”

He doesn’t answer, and something threads through James’s gut at the way Kolivan and Keith exchange a look for a minute longer than usual. It strikes him, an arc of iron. Danger. Tangible. “You can’t be serious.”

“Is this-” Keith frowns, like he should’ve seen the solution before. “What Sablan wouldn’t sign off on?”

“We’re going against orders?” Kinkade asks.

James looks around the room. Rebels, Blades, Garrison vets. The city militia, which numbers nearly as much as the first-year cadets at the Garrison. Keith’s expression settles, and from the way his eyes track across the map, he’s pulling the idea in and reforming some pre-conceived one around this- and then he catches James’s stare, and it shifts. The rest of the room breaks into nervous conversation.

  
“We have to send the MFE’s back,” Keith says, but Kolivan continues walking. “Voltron is enough!”

“Voltron will have all the commanders in the Garrison in agony for months before coming to a decision,” Kolivan replies, and stops, face grim as the backdrop of smoking city.

“Then we’ll leave with the Lions.”

“And risk a court martial? I taught you better than that.”

“You taught me- essentialism, not-”

Kolivan tilts his head, amusement crossing his eyes. Keith shoves a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath, forces the want and fire down, looks at it through a lens. They’ve backed the last of the occupation into the last third of the city. Hostages in a new grouping, a desperate grab for someone that lead the charge these past months. Voltron’s publicity. Its last victory. One day, one city.

“If we do this and fail,” Keith says, “the MFE pilots take the fall.”

“It’s a calculated risk, I’ll admit.”

Keith steps forward. “It’s more than that. Us or them, Kolivan? I can’t live with that-”

“Keith,” Kolivan interrupts, grim again. “He’s not worth a third of the lives in this city.”

The blood drains from his face. Of course, Kolivan would cut a problem down to the bones, even if that was a lucky guess- it wasn’t, not really, but Keith would argue the same for anyone he cared about. This is ridiculous. All of it- the Garrison’s uselessness, the extent to the Coalition meddling he doesn’t know of. Heat quells into the pit of his stomach, smolders like a stopped pipe buried in an engine. The line between what’s good and what’s right blurs a bit more.

“Fine,” he bites, and activates his helmet, then makes for Black.

Kolivan wants calculated risk, he can have it.

  
Morning passes with a blink. Smoke and ash hang in a sliced dome above the city and block the sun; the only gauge of time James has is the various clocks ticking away among his instruments. Tension clips his orders. They bomb a cruiser, then a fixed cannon. No fighters- not yet.

“There, the ambush,” Kinkade calls at about eleven AM. James takes them closer, to just the edges of the scene, and circles; the Galra will know they’re there, and that’s the idea, but he has an ulterior motive.

“Is that-”

“I thought the Lion was going to move on the second target.”

“He can’t be _in_ there, right?”

“Quiet,” James says, “wait for my mark.”

It isn’t long. A few zips between fog and rolling plumes, then the Lion roars, rears, and hell breaks loose.

  
“Stay on them! They’re guarding something!”

“Uh, Griffin have you seen the state of my phasers?!”

“Kinkade, cover her-”

“Negative, no way to shake these fighters.”

“Well, find one!”

His head pounds. He shoves the stick left and jams buttons, half-instinct, half desperation. With two shots, he takes out the fighters on Kinkade’s tail, then the ones on Rizavi’s; clouds light up as they swallow fire, and the afterimage fades just for three more to replace them. He has a tail, now. Shit.

No, wait, it’s-

“Griffin, get the MFE’s behind rebel fighters!”

“We’re not leaving until we crack this bunker-”

“Griffin, that’s _an order._ ”

He swings around, wide enough that Keith has to watch, and slams his palm onto the pad that ends the communication, then swears again, louder. Fuck it. He trusts Keith- more than Kolivan, anyway, but when Keith has his own orders, it’s all a jumble. Technically, there’s no one to give James orders, only someone to give him anti-orders. Which aren’t a thing.

Not ten minutes pass and Keith blasts open the bunker, picks off the droids in one pass, and lands beside dozens of civilians. James has the others play defense and circle the bunker while he pulls up beside the Lion.

“How do you want to do this, siphon them between rebel crafts?”

A long pause, interrupted by heavy breath. “No, too slow. I’ll take them in the Lion.”

Matt breaks into their link, or, he’d never left. “Keith, you’re the only one familiar enough with hostage patterns- there could be a dozen other bunkers that _we_ miss! You can’t make runs, man!”

“What else is he supposed to do?” James argues. “We can’t spare the cargo crafts and he can’t be two places at once, Holt.”

Terse silence. Keith chuckles, low and reckless in a way James pegs as a problem. “Maybe I can.”

  
“Hostiles on your left, Matt. Olia, keep an eye on that cannon.”

“You got it.”

“Copy.”

Quiet taps punctuate the chaos outside; James maneuvers, glances back, and shakes his head. “Didn’t realize you were so good at multitasking, Kogane, would’ve let you fly too.”

“It’s not all fun and games. Me and Black have been working on the mental link since I crashed,” he mutters, then adds, “she’s getting close,” but it’s strained, like he’s itching to draw his sword and have a direct confrontation. 

James wonders where he is in that line of fire. “Got a lock on the next bunker?”

“No.”

“How about cruisers?”

“One, four hundred yards north-east.”

“Hang in there.”

“Make me.”

A smile tugs at his mouth and tension bleeds out of his back, but his shoulders will be stiff for days. A fighter evades his shots. He jerks around before locking on.

Keith exits through the top hatch once the Lion returns, pilots to the next hostages, and returns to his place behind James, calling positions and shots. Three round trips later, he falls silent, and they’ve crossed into the last few miles before the border, cornered the Galra against their own particle barrier. It’s only a matter of time before they power it off.

“We’ve almost got ‘em,” Matt announces. “Another hour, maybe less. Kolivan, how’s the refugee situation looking?”

“The Garrison has been notified. Sablan is sending cargo ships and relief teams.”

“And MPs,” Rizavi huffs. “Guess we’re back on a time crunch.”

“Kolivan’s timing checks out,” Liefsdottir says.

“What, with how long it’ll take to pin ground troops?”

“No.”

“Then we’re screwed!”

James says, “they can’t arrest us if we’re the shield, Rizavi, calm down. Besides, knowing Sablan it’ll take two weeks before he decides we’re worth it-”

“Look out!” Keith shouts. James pulls up; violet floods the cockpit, and his screens. Bullets pepper the right wing. Gravity flattens him to the seat, and he jerks around, cuts the engine, then restarts it once they’ve flipped, and wheels out of the dive.

“What the hell?!”

“Tunnels,” Keith says. He throws a map onto the main screen. “James, I missed th- Kinkade, take the left, Liefsdottir aim four hundred feet southeast!”

Static clouds Olia’s voice. “They have hostages!”

“ _Christ_ ,” James mutters. “Keith, is the Black lion-”

“En route. Stay on two hundred feet, you’ll hit a bunker.”

“How did we miss them?”

“Particle shields. They engineered the tech to avoid detection-”

“-after they hacked Veronica’s feed,” he finishes, cold-washed. A shadow falls across his nose, and Keith slams his palm against the hatch lock, gone in a second.

The hour comes and goes. Sunlight grows gold, then red. Two chimes alert James to low power, and he kills a few screens to conserve energy. Kolivan and the Blade stave off a front of Galra that appear as the tunnels empty out. It’s more than their forces can handle. Ships go down. Soon, the only craft carrying civilians to safety is the Black Lion.

Keith comes back with blood on his armor. There must be dozens of guards beside each bunker; not all of it is theirs. His panting fills the cockpit, then a handful of taps and clicks as the map on James’s screen fills with lines and projected runs, half of which Keith erases and re-does at least twice. James tries to keep the MFE steady, but there’s phaser fire everywhere. It’s all he can do not to jerk the plane into a wrecked skyscraper every three blocks.

Matt’s line crackles to life. “Griffin, a flock of fighters just got past Olia, can you take ‘em?”

“Holt, I swear to god-”

“We’re almost there. Keith, tell him.”

“When the-” he rasps, and waits a beat. “When the fleet sees no way out- they retreat. One last wave, and then-” he stops again. His breath fills the cockpit. James banks, and grips the stick until his knuckles whiten.

Two hours. That’s how long it takes until he’s proven right- like he always is. James pushes fighters toward Olia, shoots the ones Matt shrugs his way; they smash planes into banks and malls and everything in between, one by one, blow by blow. It’s barely enough. Kolivan underestimated, and they’re paying for it.

When Keith pinpoints the last captives, he punches his map off, near hyperventilation. James glances back. His temple is against James’s seat, face screwed up, focus a dozen miles away. It’s painful to listen to. James reaches back and cups the back of his head. He covers that hand. Shakes. Hot as an engine run half to death, and uncaring.

Finally, he’s gone again and there’s no more hostages, and no more Galra. The tunnels lay exposed, veins of the city stripped open and bled out.

Two hundred feet to the Blade’s camp, the Black Lion drops out of the sky, full of civilians.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an alternate ending but decided to open the next chapter with it! Hope yall are doing okay with the quarantine and everything, I'm basically coping via angst and hurt/comfort tropes but I'll try to incorporate some fun stuff in the next chapter :)


	7. the one where Hedrick protags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how.... how is it MAY??

“Keith,” James fights through camp, overrun with refugees and Garrison personnel. “Keith!” He’s there- the Lion collapsed beside the barrier and the two rebel crafts that coasted it to the ground. Armored aliens usher the civilians out, bar the rest of the camp from pushing in to see if their loved ones came on the last load. James’s suit restricts the breath he sucks in. Hours of filtered oxygen, but he can’t get a lungful.

“Hold it,” says an MP. “Officer, this is an active-”

James ducks past, slams into another, and decks him. They don’t follow, after that.

Keith stumbles from the Lion’s jaws in the direction of the civilian crowd, but at James’s shout, he changes directions. Blood sticks to one side of his face. God, it’s like the same day James pulled him from the wreckage; he limps, aim off-mark, and James _told_ him, he _knew_. Keith grabs James’s arms when he reaches him, and sniffs, bloody nosed, eyes unfocused. “Did I- did I get them all, James-”

“Hey, hey, yeah, you got ‘em,” he interrupts, “look at me, look at me, Keith, tilt your head.”

He’s silent after that, verbally; wheezes escape his stained mouth as James checks the extent. No fatal wounds. The noose around his upper spine loosens, but Keith’s grip on his sleeves isn’t vice-like for no reason. He makes an aborted movement. Still won’t ask. Vaguely, he places the two pairs of footsteps behind him as Kolivan’s and Matt’s, but they pull up short as James pulls Keith into a hug.

“Not doing this alone,” Keith sniffs, resolute, after all that. He takes a step to balance. James steps with him.

“I know.”

“I- warned you.”

“Yeah.”

He has a concussion, at least. James could argue him out of the self-evaluation mentality all day, or dance around the nightmares for longer, or kiss him and hold his waist and his hands, and it wouldn’t fix this. This, he didn’t impose on himself. There’s a reason they’re out in front of everyone instead of hidden away in the cockpit or the shadow of the Lion or a tent somewhere- Keith is corporeal honor, but what’s under that earnestness curls away from words and hands.

When he presses his face into James’s neck, it’s all the more frightening.

A third pair of boots joins the others as Kolivan starts, “officer, step aw-” and Keith’s head snaps up, and he _growls_ \- actually growls, a thunderous hum from his throat that James _feels_ , and it’s in him too when he swings his eyes to Kolivan.

“We just liberated the most gridlocked city in the state, Keith put his life on the line-”

Keith pushes past, still unsteady, and James realizes Holt was the last to join them. “I almost lost that load of civilians! While you _barred_ the Garrison from interference! How many rebel crafts did we lose?” The last bit, he directs at Matt, who is similarly blood-splattered.

“Eight.”

“Griffin,” the commander starts, lower than the others, “your team needs to come with me, we’ve got to report back to Sablan.”

Something electric buzzes down his arms. “Are you kidding?”

“Keith, this situation was unavoidable.”

“Bullshit!”

Holt continues, “the MFE’s will be confiscated for investigation- you need to comply, otherwise-”

He cuts in, “what, Sablan boots us from the defense program? _And_ Voltron, he can have my MFE, for all I care. This isn’t what I signed up for.”

For a minute, no one speaks- and then Keith turns to him, brows scrunched, the muscles at his shoulders drawn stiff and James reads it on him. But fuck that. If this isn’t about Keith, it’s not about James either; he goes closer and grips his arm again. Kolivan’s ears flick back. Holt pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, foot tapping, the rest of him rigid, and Matt glances between them, realization breaking across his features.

“Dad,” he says, gesturing to the last refugees that trickle from the Black Lion. “We have the city back. Sablan forced our hand- you can’t blame Griffin for doing the right thing.”

“He can’t because James wasn’t,” Keith snaps. “The right thing would’ve been a well-planned combination of all of our forces. The right thing would’ve been preventing this in the first place. If you’d just let Voltron handle more, then none of this would have happened!” Against James’s side, his ribs rise and fall rapidly, then don’t when he steps up to the trio and directs at Holt, “but that’s what Sablan wanted, wasn’t it? For Voltron to operate on its own or not at all. Same for the Blade. It can’t be what it was, Kolivan.”

The Blade, unmasked, lifts his chin as if to lecture- and stops short. The crease between his brows deepens, his knuckles pale around the hilt of his dagger. Keith stares back, steady; for a minute, James becomes an afterthought, but this is a battle he can’t fight for Keith, hungry as he is to hit something. Holt closes his eyes for ten solid seconds before opening them and nodding.

“We’ll continue this discussion when the dust settles,” he says. “We’d better get back to the Garrison-”

“I’m flying the Black Lion.”

“Keith-”

“I’m going with you,” Matt interrupts, and they seem to exchange some unsaid thing before Keith turns to James, grabs his collar, kisses him- in front of _Holt_ , and Kolivan, and _everyone_ , with teeth and tongue and god, he tastes like blood-sweat-dirt and his hair tickles James’s cheek and he reeks and it’s the _hottest_ thing James has ever-

“Holy shit,” Matt says, with a wheeze, and yeah.

_Holy shit._

  
It is monumentally unfair that after that, Keith leaves him with their respective C.O.’s and three half-dead-of-exhaustion MFE pilots to rally for a final flight, but honestly, James doesn’t blame him. After a long three minutes where he covers the back of his neck -burning- and takes several breaths to make his chest quit pounding, there’s a good amount of temple-rubbing from the commander and stared daggers from Kolivan; then they order him to his team while the Garrison prepares transports for the wounded. By the look on the team’s faces, they saw everything.

“Was that- what I think it was?” Kinkade opens, no sign of surprise but for the brows halfway up his forehead. “James respect-authority-at-all-costs Griffin?”

Similarly, Rizavi’s gone monotone. “Yeah, not even _I_ thought I’d win that bet.”

He fumbles with the glove he’d started to pull on. “You started a bet?” Then- “what do I get out of it?”

“Well, from the drunk make-outs that generally led to your sighing through class, I say a sober one is a break in the pattern,” Liefsdottir answers, with an impressed grin, and knocks James’s arm. “You know, statistically speaking.”

“Woah, woah,” James protests, catching up when the others follow, “we were actually in the middle of an important conversation, alright? Good news is, Holt is on our side, bad news is that we’re gonna get shit from everyone else in the Garrison.”

Kinkade exhales, short and funny. “Griff, we knew that going in. Don’t worry.”

“The odds of that increasing his anxiety is alarming, Ryan.”

“Maybe that was the point.”

James jumps in. “Are you serious? I just got a target painted on me, two people with armies behind them now want to _eat me alive!”_

“Maybe not, now that Keith tried,” Rizavi blurts. The three collapse into cackles and snickers, and James slaps his hands over his face, and groans. Now is _so_ not the time for this.

  
“So, uh,” Matt says, about halfway to the Garrison and as soon as his restraint breaks. “James Griffin, huh?”

Keith huffs and refuses to take his attention from the screen, glitchy as it is. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about, Matt.”

“No, I know, I know, it’s just- wow, Keith. _James Griffin._ ”

“He’s- don’t say it like that. He’s a good- pilot.” It’s lame to his own ears, which haven’t stopped burning, but it’s true. Every disaster, every crisis- James held down his end like no one else could, or expected, and even when Keith rushed into a firefight without a backup plan, it turns out he had one all along.

“But this is like, a new thing, right? I haven’t completely lost the gaydar?”

“Pretty sure he’s- I don’t- see how this has to do with the mission.”

Matt gets down from his perch on the dash, folds his arms and crosses one ankle to lean back. “Keith, man, I heard those orders you gave the MFE pilots, and... honestly the way James stuck out his neck for you, in front of my dad, well let’s just say I’ve been on the receiving end of his temper before. And you really dodged a bullet there.” He pauses and tilts his head. “But... seriously, I didn’t expect that speech at the end. Think the poor guy was whiter than my ass in winter.”

“You’re Italian.”

“You say that like it’s an argument. Have you not noticed I’m a pale motherfucker, or is it a Galra-color-blindness thing?”

He snorts, then shakes his head; for someone so adamant on keeping things PG around his sister, Matt is astonishingly vulgar. Or maybe Keith just brings that out in him.

Or shock does. Keith studies the floor where the dash slopes up, and forces his shoulders to relax. It’s no easy feat. “Hey, Matt.”

“Hm?”

“Thanks. I mean, for-”

Matt pats his arm. “Yeah. I know. And- you’re welcome.” He offers a smile, small as it is, and after a minute, Keith returns it.

When they set down in the hangar, finally, his eyes fall shut and breath gusts out of him, but he waves off Matt’s attempt to help him out of the seat; it won’t be the first time he’s pushed through after a fight like that, and the low hum of voices that come through the Lion’s walls are ones he recognizes. Sure enough, he takes the steps down and the team is there, halfway from the lift. With a running leap, Pidge throws her arms around him and Matt.

Then Hunk. Then Allura, then Lance, then Shiro, though from the headlock he gets around both of them, Keith has a feeling he’s in for a soulful discussion about _teamwork_ after this is all over. A lump forms in his throat when Pidge sniffs.

“Oh, Keith,” Allura says against his shoulder, “why didn’t you call?”

He starts- well, as much as he can without _breathing_. “Kolivan... wouldn’t budge.”

Matt says, “not until the end, at least,” and laughs, but not in a ribbing sense. 

At this, Pidge pulls back. “What do you mean, not until the end? Was dad there, what did you say?”

“I kind of- uh-”

“-stuck it to the man,” Matt finishes. “Dad’s letting the MFE pilots off the chain, at least for now- I think you have a fighting chance of getting Sablan’s approval for more risky missions, too. Granted of course this next meeting goes as well as I hope it does.” 

The mood sobers, like a fog rolls in, but when Matt gives Keith a meaningful look, Keith mouths back _thank you_. The group collectively untangles, and he adjusts the armor they’d skewed.

“Come on,” he says, “I’ve got a feeling this is gonna be rough.”

  
“Do you have _any_ idea how big the headache you gave me is?!” Veronica hollers, waving files in one fist and shaking the other. Rizavi squeals- actually _squeals_ , takes a running leap, and jumps. Papers fly. Kinkade busts out laughing. Veronica tears Rizavi off long enough to lunge at the other three, shake them, blubber, which makes the rest of them blubber, and finally they quit talking about how stupid it all was and just hug it out.

Like _adults_ , James thinks as he glares down another snickering bystander. Gusts announce the first wave of cargo ships transporting priority-one passengers, and immediately, a squad of medical teams race out from the sideline. He jerks his head. “Come on, let’s get out of their way. How much did we miss?”

Veronica scrubs her glasses with her sleeve, and he pretends not to see her swipe at her eyes, too. “Not much- the Blade hasn’t gotten back yet, or Matt’s people- but we’ve got the Coalition worked up. Three reps from the northern state just got here, and they’re pissed.”

“Wait, wait,” Rizavi shakes her arm. “You’re telling me we’re up against Sablan _and_ these guys? What do they have to do with any of this?”

“Ah- apparently they’re on team ‘lock up Voltron and give us the key’.”

“Kinky,” Kinkade says, with a sideways smirk. James and Liefsdottir gag.

Veronica slides her card through the panel. The lift doors open and air condition hits them. “Sablan is going to ask you some hard questions, in front of a _lot_ of people, but as long as you answer honestly, I think most of the Garrison will agree that he forced our hand.” She shifts, shuffles her now out-of-order papers, then glances at James as the lift hums and judders upward. “What I’m worried about is how the Blade will frame things. And the rebels.”

“Keith has Kolivan’s support,” James says.

“And the Holts,” Ina adds, “though judging from their track record, it won’t hold much water. Iverson’s vote of confidence would get us a long way.”

“To what end, though?” Ryan gestures vaguely in the direction of the hangar they’re leaving. “We won’t be much use to the northern state, and Platt city was our primary mission for months- it’s not like Voltron can’t put out a few fires down here, unless you think-”

James finishes, “Sablan will shrug off Voltron’s load to _us_.”

Rizavi drags a hand through her hair and chuckles. “Well, too bad for him, _we_ just did the impossible. I give it two months and the Coalition will be begging us to jump ship and work for them.”

The others crack smiles, including James. “That’s a slippery slope you know, mercenary gigs.”

“It’s what I was gonna do anyway.” She mimes aiming a gun as the lift slows. “Nadia Rizavi, bounty hunter.”

“Was it really?” Kinkade asks.

Veronica gives him a look over her glasses. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Hey, I mean it! Griffin, you’re on my side, right?”

Four pairs of eyes shift his way. It’s true that his options are open, once his contract is up- the Blade won’t have him, and instructing doesn’t seem like a natural progression, now that he’s seen firsthand how much it sucks to fight the chain of command. That leaves the rebels and local militia. Giving up his MFE is one thing, but flying is a skillset he doesn’t lose after walking through that door.

Luckily, the lift doors _ding_ and scrape open, and he doesn’t have to answer.

Every body in the hall freezes. Voices peter out and gestures halt, mid-sentence. James glances behind them, half expecting Kolivan, or- hell, Holt, either one, but Veronica grabs his shoulder and mutters, “let’s go,” and they pick up the pace.

Huh. So that’s what the Paladins felt like.

  
As soon as they make it into the debrief -or briefing, depending on how you look at it- James searches Keith’s form out of the cluster of high collars and gold stripes, which isn’t hard, considering he’s in full armor, complete with gore. Jesus, what is he doing here? James starts to move around the perimeter of the room, but a pointed cough from Iverson stops him; the Paladins have the same pinched faces and terseness, and it takes a minute for everything to click.

Oh. Stubborn idiot.

“Miss McClain,” Iverson starts, heavily, “team Voltron would like an analysis of the north state’s relief progress.”

A pause and quick tapping later, she drags the map onto the wall.

“As I suspected,” Allura says. She meshes her fingers. “The Atlas ought to take priority, unless we can reclaim one of the links between Coalition-occupied cities and here.”

An alien two seats from Sablan objects, “it is impossible. We will only be able to take them once your region is clear- otherwise they will flee and regroup.”

“Yeah, we’re aware of how that works,” James says. “What do you want us to do, collapse every labyrinth between the Garrison and the north? Even if we could, god knows how many civilians are lost down there.” Keith moves closer to the map and skims his fingertips along the route the Galra escaped to Platt City from. Head turned, James doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but he’s got a guess.

The room goes back and forth on it, then the next point, which is concerning the Blade and rebels once they file in, worse for wear. The alien that shot down Allura turns out to be a Pertinaxian representative from the North Coalition, which is a thing now, considering Shirogane and the princess can only communicate so far when the Garrison has them grounded. Sablan makes passive accusations, Keith burns through tactical jargon with Ina and Kolivan, then Matt, and even James barely keeps up.

“-the MFE understudies, then.”

“Woah, Kogane,” Hedrick says, wide eyed, “you said it yourself, they’re not ready-”

“They were at the city, weren’t they?”

“Yeah, because- you dragged them into this-”

“They’ve passed then, as far as I’m concerned,” he cuts in. “Voltron can still shoulder most of the work. We won’t have them do much.”

“Then why deploy them at all?”

“Because-”

James takes his eyes from the map once the pause goes on long enough; around the table, lax poses shift. Keith makes a pained noise, which breaks the silence, and braces his hand on the edge of the table, and his weight. Pidge says, “Keith?” and reaches to steady him at the same time Hunk does, then the rest of the Paladins, with a hushed discussion the rest of the table eclipses. When Kolivan and Matt push over, he’s completely blocked.

Something dims in James’s chest, and he lets out a long breath, rubbing his jaw; it’s exactly what he was afraid of, but the shock’s worn off.

“You should go with them,” Rizavi murmurs, once someone calls the hospital wing over the intercom.

And hand the team over to Sablan, sans black-sheep-leader? He crosses his arms and chews the tip of his thumb, then leans back. “He’d want us to finish this first.”

Iverson’s stare shifts his way. He sits back in the chair, frown deepening.

  
The rest of the meeting goes as follows: awkward paper shuffles, stilted condemnation of the Paladins’ exit, a half-assed discussion about whether the Red One is to be trusted when he jumps at every opportunity to somehow injure himself. This comes largely from the Pertinaxian representative, but from the way Sablan scrubs both hands over his eyes, they have an agreement.

Griffin opens his mouth again, glowering, but Hedrick catches his eye and shakes his head. This is the time and place- he’s just beating a dead horse.

“What are the specs on getting those kids a crash course on Northern topography, Tim?” Iverson asks, then clears his throat. It’s the first pertinent remark anyone’s made since Shirogane clasped Hedrick’s shoulder and left, face pinched.

“Two weeks, max, but... well, there’s no accounting for those tunnels.”

Veronica taps in agreement and drags a layout projection over the existing map. “A tracker would come in handy, but... we have no way to gauge heat due to the makeup of the walls. Even then, that would only tell us where _people_ are, not the exits or... anything else. We could try sonar?”

The table falls silent, chairs spinning slightly, back and forth. The red handprint Keith left on the table is blue from the projector.

“Matthew,” Hedrick says, drawing raised brows, “what kind of energy would it take you to build an invisibility shield for twenty mini-jets?”

“Jesus, Hedrick!”

“Tim, you can’t be serious.”

“Look, I’m not suggesting we send my class in blind, but-” he takes a breath -sweating already, Jesus- “when we have a solid map, _someone_ is going to have to siphon out those civilians. Voltron’s out of the question and- unless we want to draw enemy fire immediately, we need a stealthy approach. Regular fighters just won’t cut it.”

“If only we could remote control them, huh?” Matt says, but his eyes go off to the distance like it wasn’t a joke. Hedrick swallows, then shoots a furtive glance toward Veronica in the hopes that she’ll have a better vote of confidence, despite Matthew’s refusal to answer his question.

Her eyes dart between him and Sablan and Iverson. “Well- those tunnels are definitely big enough for a mini-jet. And- we _do_ need a chunk of fighter pilots to remain at the Garrison...” Her fingers flex and close into fists over her keyboard.

The Pertinaxian interjects, “I dislike this proposition. The Northern Coalition already has its way to rescue civilians when we come across them, tunnels or otherwise.”

“I’m sure Princess Allura would like to be filled in on that,” Hedrick says, squinting. Why bring it up when she _just_ left? Is nobody else wondering why this guy is still here?

Iverson taps his fingers against his jaw, chin in palm. He looks like he’s aged five years since this morning. Veronica taps halfheartedly. Even Sablan continues to study the map, face troubled. Hedrick glances at the handprint. It interrupts the lamination like- well, like a bloody fucking handprint on a _table_.

“Let’s adjourn for now,” Sablan says, “continue with relief work.”

Afterward, Hedrick stands at the map, tracing the series of towns and cities that border the capital. Platt was its own mountain, but there are three dozen metropolises like it, and Reed City is three times the size of the biggest. Truly a monster, but then, Hedrick bites his nails at anything he has to consider loosing his students to. Three quarters of his classmates are dead. Trying to imagine the MFE pilots taking their place...

Veronica joins him, literally biting her nails, then Matt. He tugs at the lock of hair in front of his ear, which- geez, Hedrick thought _Kogane_ needed a trim. Matt’s is- well, it’s a _mane_. Are they some of the last of Hedrick’s graduation buddies? He can’t remember. On the right side of the table, the MFE pilots are still in deep discussion.

“-I’m saying is, we’ve made our point, let’s lay low for now.”

“The Paladins won’t be able to form Voltron for a week! C’mon, Griffin, isn’t this our chance? We can handle more!”

“No, I- I don’t want you burnt out like that, seriously. Ryan, help me out here-”

“Mmhm.”

“That was in my favor, actually.”

“Rizavi, oh my god.”

Veronica sighs, but her weight leans to one leg and her jaw loosens. “It’s funny, you’d think Sablan would be all for some child soldiers.”

“I don’t know, I didn’t like that Pertinaxian guy,” Matt mumbles. “They were a shade off authoritarian state, last I checked. And they’ll throw Keith under the bus again, if they need to.”

Hedrick says, “Sablan has to grow a conscience sometime,” and they don’t agree, but don’t disagree, either.

  
When he gets clearance to see Keith, it’s right before midnight and after the Paladins. Some of the class -see; all- pile into the office and the doorway and the hall outside it, and beg him to bring them, but it’s out of his hands, guys, it’s not like he has a keycard to- wait, Kevin, give it back- guys, that’s not funny-

Okay yeah, so maybe he’s been ‘the new instructor’ for five years and maybe that makes the kids think he’s a pushover- but there’s a lot he’ll go through to convince everyone _else_ otherwise. Times change. He can’t blame them, can he? What with- you know, having to experience high school, military school, the loss of family members _and_ an alien invasion, all at once.

Keycard in hand, water stained -no, not the alligator tears, Leanne, come _on_ \- and vaguely scratched, he lifts a hand at the Paladins in passing, who hardly notice. Huddled together, they whisper like the cliche the rest of the Garrison seems to think they are. Iverson would have an aneurysm.

“ _You?_ ” Keith says, as soon as Hedrick comes in. Comical.

“I- uh, just wanted to check in. The class is livid, they threw too many well-wishing crap at me to haul up here.” At Keith’s nod, he pulls up a chair. “You held up pretty well before, so I figured the other shoe was gonna drop after Iverson and Kolivan let you go.”

“Ugh, not you too. I’m fine.”

“You took on an _army_ while half-attached to a psychic _link_.”

“I’m not- I’m really fine, okay? How did the rest of the meeting go?”

Hedrick leans forward and rests his elbows on his legs. “It didn’t... well, not exactly... it... it was tense. We’ll have another one soon, I’m sure- for now, it’s just, same old, same old.” Keith lets out a long breath at that, rubbing his eyes. Hedrick adds, “there’s- one thing, though.”

“What?”

“I hope to god you guys have a contention plan when it comes to the new Coalition.”

“Oh, yeah, that... it’s a work in progress.”

And he tilts his head, frowning slightly at Hedrick, like there’s something there he didn’t see.

“What do you mean, he’s _off limits_ ,” James demands, fingers curling on the table. “I just saw him the other day!”

Shiro sits back, fork tapping his bowl, a plastic mutter beneath the cafeteria’s hum of conversation. “Sorry Griffin. Sablan- he’s immovable.”

“Tell me something I don’t know!”

“Apologies,” Allura says, “we called Krolia, and she agrees- he needs company, not bed rest, again. I’m afraid Kolivan pushed the limit of what the Garrison will allow.”

Matt pokes at his macaroni and snorts. “That’s an understatement. Taking back Platt City without the Atlas _or_ Voltron? Jesus, if the Galra didn’t beat Keith down then we sure as hell didn’t help.” Silence falls, and James tugs at his collar, uniform creased where it’s tied around his waist. He likes Matt, and the rest of the Rebels pull their weight enough, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault but Sablan’s what happened in the city. Iverson’s too. If they’d just _listened_...

Matt sets down his fork. “Well, anyway, how’s it been from your end, James?”

“Not bad, all things considered,” he sighs, and pulls out a chair, sits, drums his fingers on the table, once. “Still waiting for the other shoe to drop, Holt’s been... quiet.”

“Want me to put in a word?”

“Ha. If you think it’ll get through, the guy’s got his own battles getting the Atlas off the ground.”

Matt loops an arm over the back of his chair. “About that- Rizavi, you shut off the particle barrier over the tunnels, right?”

She glances over from the next table. “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

Kinkade says, “more like throwing wrenches in the control box and hoping it didn’t explode.”

Liefsdottir tilts her head. “Actually, given the success she’s had with that before, it seemed like a viable tactic. At the time.”

“Key words.”

“Hey, I’ve got all my limbs intact, don’t I?”

Shiro makes a face between a suppressed laugh and a grimace. “What are you getting at, Matt?”

Matt hunches over the table again, elbows caging his plate, fingers splayed. “So the invisibility tech- it’s like scrambling topographic info, right? Messes with, like, what shows up in the MFE maps.”

“What does that have to do with a particle barrier?” James asks.

“Well, from running a few tests- everything. It’s one thing to fine tune radio and sonar interference, but when me and Katie took a look at the tech they stole from _us_ , we realized that they were doing something crazier. The barrier sent out its own signals depending on which crafts were closest. It fed off the feedback and created its own gravity, sound frequency, everything. This thing was almost _organic_.”

Shiro sits forward. “Does Commander Holt know about this?”

“Yeah, and- here’s where it gets wacky- if we can copy-paste that shit and slap it on the Atlas’s tertiary power cores, we’ll never need to bioengineer a Balmeran crystal again.” He wags his finger in James’s direction. “Oh, also, the MFE’s can run indefinitely.”

“ _No_ ,” Leifsdottir gasps, like it’s too good to be true. “You’re shitting us, Holt.”

“Facts are facts.”

James’s head stops spinning long enough for him to say, “so that’s why Rizavi couldn’t shut it off? Because it learned how to reject commands?”

“Yep,” Matt replies, sitting back, satisfied. “So really, when you guys couldn’t pin them the other month, it wasn’t a total loss.” His voice stays lighthearted, but he glances at James after, sincere. 

  
“I’ll give it right back, I swear,” James says to Hedrick later, after the team kicks him out of the dorm for fidgeting and pacing. “I won’t even comment on the fact that having that floor of the medical wing closed off is ridiculous, classist bullshit-”

“Jesus Christ,” Hedrick yells at the ceiling, but doesn’t let up his stupid _strides_ down the hall. “This is it. I told mom I’d make a _horrible_ instructor- Montgomery dragged me into it- just one year as a substitute, he said, but noo-”

“Sir, come _on_ -”

“No, no no no,” he says, and spins around, “you don’t get to _sir_ me, Griffin- just because Keith is my TA does _not_ mean I have a card! Go- bother Veronica, I’m off the clock!”

“Ha! We’re on military time.”

Hedrick throws his hands out, bends at the waist and shouts, “what does that even mean?!”

Five bribery attempts later, he caves. James sprints to the lift, sneaks behind a housekeeping cart, and barges in on an empty room. He covers his face and groans, then drops his hands, turns on his heel, and sprints back. Hedrick does _not_ look amused at seeing him again after seven minutes, exactly, and snatches the card before slamming the door in James’s face. He makes for the usual haunts. Cafeteria, hangar, roof. Nothing.

When he finds him, finally, it’s in the Black Lion- and he only knows there’s someone there because the thing _rumbles_ every now and then. Also, lucky guess.

“Jesus, thought a wormhole opened up,” James mutters, dropping beside him in front of the pilot’s seat, and scooting in. There’s a few screens opened up above the dash, some with the Paladins talking as they pilot, grinning, others with the whole team in a white-tiled room, blankets and cards thrown about, or a board game opened up. A few have alien landscapes.

James scoots closer, then Keith draws his leg up and clasps around his ankle, and they settle, never for long; a hand tucks hair behind an ear, an arm rests on the chair, then doesn’t, a foot crosses the other. James plucks at the hem of his shirt. Keith scratches his arm, the loose tee shy of hanging off his frame. 

“I got sucked into a wormhole once,” Keith says, abruptly, bright red. 

They both freeze, staring.

James breaks first, with a snigger that kind of catches in his nose, and Keith’s eyes screw shut when he laughs, shoulders shaking. James covers his mouth. That bright thing in his chest grows and grows, less like the hammer from after Keith kissed him and more like- bubbles. More floaty. Keith looks at him again and it hits him: they’re sat here, giggling like teens, like all the time this war took from them has rushed back.

He turns, still laughing, close-mouthed, and tries to focus on deciphering what pixelated Keith says in panel 9, but the tips of his ears are burning. Keith catches his breath. His grin smooths into a smile. He’ll have lines when he’s older, and James hopes he has a few to match.

A few minutes later, Keith covers his face, shoulders still shaking. A tear sneaks toward his chin. James starts, almost tensing- but Keith’s eyes are crinkled when he removes his hand. In laughter, in sheepishness, a bit of a bittersweet shade James doesn’t understand.

He glances at the screens.

Or maybe he does.

“Hey, c’mere... c’mere.”

“Sorry, I- I-”

“No, I get it. This week was a lot. Hey... you're okay...”

_Last_ week was a lot. This month, the past four years. Keith curls against him, half in his lap, and cries into his shoulder. James rubs his back, skating around the edges of plaster covered by fabric- his other hand finds its way into Keith’s hair. Rougher than he thought, but clean and untangled. Krolia’s doing, no doubt.

He’s a quiet crier. He’s quiet, period.

James doesn’t know how to tell him that this is the calm after the storm. One city, seven months, seized with both hands and ripped free. Like a blade. Like- a kiss.

“Thank you,” Keith muffles into his shirt, eventually, “for pulling me out of here.”


End file.
